The Sound of Sorcery
by Somnambulus Deo
Summary: AU, diverges after OotP. A Sixth Year story. As Voldemort's dark grip stretches forth to encircle all, Harry and the Order must find a way to counter him. But, as old forces fail, new powers must rise...
1. Your Shadow Will Catch You

_**Disclaimer: **Characters and material featured in this story are the property of author J.K. Rowling and her publishers. This story is written largely for the private amusement of myself, and any who care to read it, for no financial or other payment. No infringement of the author's rights is intended._

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_**Author's Note: **This story began as an idea shortly after I finished reading "The Order of the Phoenix". I decided then and there that I wanted to try writing a long fic, and that the chances were that it wouldn't be finished by the time the canon sixth book hit the shelves- and so, therefore, I was going to write my own version of Harry Potter's sixth year. Thus, this story follows on from "The Order of the Phoenix", and accepts as canon history all the events related in J.K. Rowling's first five books. However, from that point on, the story diverges from the official series, following its own sequence of events and revelations. Some may parallel canon- some things have been foreshadowed for a long time in either universe, but some may markedly differ. Cast your minds back to the (fictional) late summer of 1996, and begin..._

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**Chapter One**: Your Shadow will catch You

The wood was nicer than the stone. Not just because it was smooth and shapely, whereas the stone was hard and rough, and certainly not because the wood had been finely carved, while the stone merely rough hewn. Not even so much because the wood had once been alive, whilst the stone was in no great measure changed since ancient hands had quarried it from the ground a millennium ago. No, Harry Potter decided, sitting on his own in the quiet church, his back against a tall octagonal stone pillar and absently contemplating the polished, almost oily finish of the pew in front of him, the reason that he preferred wood was that it did not hide its true nature. Wood which was weak almost always looked weak, either to ordinary eyes or to other, more advanced talents with which he had been more than modestly blessed- or cursed. Likewise, wood which appeared strong was strong, strong and trustworthy, while faults in stone might lie hidden for a long time, not seen by naive eyes until they gave out under weight.

He sighed, and tilted his head back, peering through his round-lensed spectacles up at the crudely carved crucifix on the screen between nave and chancel. Given the events of the past year and a half of Harry's life, certain of his acquaintances might have wondered if Harry were seeking to find a parallel between himself and the figure depicted thereon. They would have been wrong. Harry Potter was not a Christian- his aunt and uncle, although themselves seasonal Christians because it was the socially done thing to do, would certainly have never considered Harry's spiritual well-being worthy of attention, even if they believed in such things. In later years, as he grew out from under their shadow, and encountered far greater shadows beyond, the sixteen-year old might well have found the idea of a faith attractive, if it were not for certain historic... disagreements between his new peer group and the church.

Harry Potter was a wizard. Not just any wizard either, but the wizard who had (albeit unwittingly and at no real credit to his skill or learning in the magical arts, since he had it on good authority- well, that of Remus Lupin, who was the next best thing in a shabby suit- that the only word he could say at the time of the incident was 'Gu-ga') once vanquished the most dreadful and terrible dark wizard of recent times, destroying his body and sending his soul fleeing into ghoulish exile for thirteen years.

Many things had changed now. The dark wizard, Voldemort, was back, as deadly as before, perhaps more so, since now his thirst for power and conquest was piqued by his long exile and humiliation. Harry Potter too, was no longer a baby. All that was left of the infant who had conquered the dark lord was a pair of wide and sad sea green eyes, and a jagged scar- the only hurt he had taken from the encounter- across his right temple. The scar was currently hidden by his perpetually untidy dark hair, and the eyes somewhat muted behind his glasses, and his childhood innocence too had fled him.

Some one and a half months ago Harry had seen his godfather, Sirius Black, a man who had languished for twelve years in the wizard prison of Azkaban for no greater crime than his love for Harry's family and his misguided trust in someone he had thought also to be their friend, murdered by one of Voldemort's Death Eater servants. A year before, one of the boys at Harry's school, the world renowned (in a very select circle) Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a place Harry had once adored and felt to be his true home, but a place which had now turned dark in his memories, Cedric Diggory, had been killed by another Death Eater because he had stood side by side with Harry. Behind both these hurts, Harry knew that, fifteen years ago, Voldemort had murdered both his parents.

He had known fear. He had been sick with terror for months when he had first known of the Dark Lord's return. Terrified and numb, for he felt in some manner responsible- he had been a, however unwilling, part of the ritual which had restored Voldemort to true and physical life, after all. That had changed. It had changed after Sirius' death, when Professor Dumbledore, the Hogwarts Headmaster, had told him of the nature of the prophecy which had, all those years ago, led to Voldemort's first attempt to slay Harry. What the prophecy boiled down to was really quite simple.

Harry would kill Voldemort, or Voldemort would kill Harry. To survive, to save his wizarding world and all his friends, Harry would have to surrender to his own desire for revenge, and, however it might be deserved, kill the Dark Lord.  
Understandably, he had spent much time recently in as much peace and quiet as possible, which had led him here. The church of St Margaret, Little Whinging, was a fairly small, modest building, and locked outside of the hours of service after a recent spate of vandalism (perpetrated, Harry strongly suspected, by his cousin Dudley Dursley and his neanderthal friends). That would not have been an overly great problem ordinarily- there was a small, high broken window which, while impassible to a great oaf like Dudley, was easily reachable by Harry- and had been no problem at all in the two weeks since his birthday.

Harry felt the crinkled, folded letter from the Ministry of Magic in his pocket. He'd kept it with him like a talisman since it had arrived on the night of his birthday. After all, what with all the trouble practising magic outside of school had got him into in the last few years, if it hadn't been for the other problems weighing on his mind, he would have been unable to restrain himself from dancing on the tables, whatever his uncle's reaction. Sixteen years old, and having achieved a satisfactory standard in a satisfactory number of OWLS (Ordinary Wizarding Levels), Harry was no longer regarded by the Ministry as an underage wizard, and such was, subject to the ordinary legal restrictions, fully permitted to use magic in the holidays.

It was a license. A boon. A gift. Unfortunately, as a way of confirming him as a fully-paid-up and equally responsible member of wizarding society at the moment, it was also a millstone. Harry not only had the right to use magic, he also had the responsibility to do so.

"Oh dear, I've forgotten the lock again..." muttered a voice behind him. He turned quickly, and his small bag fell to the floor, sending up a cloud of dust and a sharp report of sound. Framed by the light from the doorway, the vicar, a tall, reasonably hale and hearty man in his mid-sixties, paused. "Hello?" He peered into the church, almost nervously. Harry felt a surge of anger. That the man should be afraid to look into his own church...

"It's all right, Mr Wainwright," he called, standing up and moving into the light. "The door was open- I just needed a bit of quiet."

"Oh, not at all, not at all..." the vicar smiled, coming in, once he saw that the intruder was no threat. "Anyone is always welcome..." he glanced back at the padlock sadly. "Well, at least, that is to say... they would have been. Sad times, young sir, sad times." Revd. Wainwright looked at him curiously. "Forgive me... do I know you? I am sure I've seen you about here before, but..."

"I'm Harry Potter, sir." Harry held out a hand. "I live with the Dursleys." His lip curled as he said the name. He glanced at the padlock. "Sorry, is the church supposed to be locked? I didn't have any problem getting in, so I thought it was all right." He smiled inwardly, having confirmed the vicar's own belief that he had simply forgotten to set the padlock, without any outright lie. The truth, that Harry had simply opened the lock with one of the simplest spells he'd ever been taught, was probably not appropriate to the occasion.

"Oh no, no, that's quite all right, Harry. Yes, I do remember you, although it's been many years." Wainwright smiled, sitting down beside him. "And no, the church is not supposed to be locked, Mr Potter, although I'm very much afraid that it now usually is." Wainwright shook his head again.

"These days, I fear, even the house of God is not safe from acts of senseless destruction."

"Doesn't it make you angry?" Harry was puzzled by the man's quiet despondency. Puzzled, and aggrieved on his behalf. Wainwright smiled, the thin, wry smile of one who has an almost affectionate familiarity with a thorny problem, but no answer with which to resolve it.

"Christianity teaches us to turn the other cheek, to not heed such things. We should be better than matters of petty vengeance." He sighed.

_It doesn't satisfy you though, does it?_

Harry reflected inwardly. Outwardly, he looked sideways at the vicar.

"Isn't it a bit contradictory, though? I mean, you're talking about the same religion that said 'thou shalt not suffer a witch to live'?"

To his surprise, Wainwright gave the same smile- albeit now tinged with a more overly cynical edge.

"Ah yes, Mr Potter. You know, it's usually about your age that people ask me about that. That, or the crusades. Or Northern Ireland. Or whatever monstrous feat of unchristian murder or prejudice is being perpetrated or supported by the American alleged religious right." Wainwright turned forward in his pew to face the crucifix, and mulled over it, his chin resting on the tips of his steepled fingers, long tweed-wrapped legs half crouched on the low bench, his elbows resting on his knees. "Religion is a powerful force, Harry. So is any belief, but religions- the successful ones, anyway, whether right or wrong, tend to be so pervasive that much is done in their name, much that a more fair and true interpretation of the faith's creed, taken after the fact, would not condone." He shook his head gently, his thinning white hair drifting slightly out of place. "Then, too, remember that there is a world of difference- maybe not in some of the tragic... misjudgements made by local people, by whose hands many innocents did indeed die, but a world of difference between what I'm sure the Bible really meant by witchcraft, and the local wise women, the harmless ceremonies of older religions, or even-" he chuckled softly, "The mind-readers and telekinetic mutants of science fiction which have probably made you think about such things."

_You think that if you like, Reverend,_ Harry thought, _but I'm still curious as to what makes you tick._

"Alliances with Satan, Harry." Wainwright said, startling him slightly.

"Whether that is a real person, or just a metaphor- whether you believe in God or not, it makes no difference. The real forces of evil do not ride on broomsticks, they do not wear pointed hats, and they do not keep company with ill-favoured tabby cats."

_Oh, gods, to have Professor McGonagall here now. _

"Sweep away the trappings of the age, and you will see them more clearly. They are those who cast away conscience for the sake of power. People who will make deals with forces or principles that are an abomination to all that we should cherish- simply to be able to do something that others cannot. That is what we should not suffer to live."

"So you're saying there's nothing wrong with magic?"

"Ah, now that is a slightly... different question. Of course, much of what we take for granted nowadays would then have been dismissed as magic. If magic existed... then, well, in those days it was felt that anyone who seemed to be using such powers- in reality, yes, I admit, probably just because they had some skill that was beyond the understanding of their more ignorant brethren- must have got them from the Devil, and so must be his ally. Now, perhaps, we are more open-minded... but I do believe that there is a natural order to things, Harry, and that we should not interfere with it."

Harry leant forward, fascinated. He was aware that he had, perhaps, an unfair advantage in the conversation- Reverend Wainwright simply assumed they were discussing theory, moral politics. Harry, on the other hand, could have levitated the vicar a few feet into the air, or transfigured the hard pew into a comfortable chaise longue. Still, it was rare to get the opportunity to see magic- 'from the outside' as it were.

"Surely though, Mr Wainwright," he began, aware that he was speaking in what Ron had called his 'Hermione impression' during OWLS, "If there's a natural order, that's the order of the natural world, then if magic existed, it would be a part of that, just a part that hadn't been, well, discovered or documented yet?"

"A fair point." The vicar mused, adjusting his dog collar. "I concede on that. If magic were indeed a natural skill, then its existence could not in any way be evil itself. Which only leaves, of course, as I anticipate you, Mr Potter, the use to which it is put- and to use a rare gift and advantage to evil purpose, especially against others who lacked that power, would be evil indeed."

"What about good, though?" Harry asked. It touched rather upon his own particular dilemma, after all. "You talk about turning the other cheek- but what if someone with that sort of power- magical, political, whatever, was going to do- was already doing- terrible things, and only you had the power to stop him. Should you do it?"

"Well, of course, Harry." The vicar looked slightly surprised, but not for the reasons Harry had expected. "The nature of power- whether it is 'normal' or fanciful, does not change the moral obligations which go with it. Power breeds responsibility. The ability to help others and the moral obligation to do so- especially where fewer or no other people can, which is where we come back to your idea about a rare 'magical' gift, go hand in hand."

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Harry mooched along Privet Drive. There was no other word for it, really. His chin was sunk into his throat, his eyes downcast, his hands in his jeans' pockets, and kicking small pebbles with his trainers. Probably the only significant difference in his posture to that of teenagers up and down the land was that, in his pocket, his right hand was curled round, fingering the tip of the wand hidden up his sleeve. None of what Wainwright had 'preached'- the word was, he supposed, double appropriate, had exactly been new to him, but it had clarified things somewhat to hear it from another person. Yes, he had a duty to stop Voldemort, both for himself, and for everyone else. He exchanged a companionable nod with a disgusting and piscine odorous down-and-out who was rummaging in a litter bin. Mundungus Fletcher returned the nod, and moved along. Harry turned up the drive to Number Four. Good, Uncle Vernon wasn't back yet. Grunnings Drills was in some financial trouble, it appeared, and Vernon's work days were getting longer. It was now around seven-fifteen- Harry had left the church when Mr Wainwright had wanted to start preparing for the evening service, and he hadn't walked at all quickly- and Aunt Petunia had been told that morning that Vernon couldn't guarantee being back before eight pm. He'd seen his cousin Dudley and his alleged friends, Piers Polkiss and Sammy Bushell- who was, Harry gathered, more Dudley's friendly neighbourhood drug dealer than his actual friend, busily and industriously employed in vandalising a set of traffic lights- their latest hobby, it seemed, to judge from the local papers. Harry had steered clear of them, despite a great temptation to petrify them and stand them in the road, so they might learn to appreciate the value of pedestrian crossings. 

If Dudley was running true to form, he'd probably arrive home at around eleven-fifteen and stomp straight up to bed, so as to give his Aunt and Uncle as little time as possible to smell the cigarette smoke and alcohol on his clothes. That, Harry realised with some resignation, left the house to himself and his Aunt.

"Oh well," Harry sighed. "She can only get me to scrub the floors once."

He pushed open the front door, and stepped in, taking care to make the squeaky floorboard creak. Petunia Dursley would object to something about him anyway, so he might as well give her an obvious target. It would make the rant quicker.  
There was a muffled intake of breath from the living room, and a rustling of papers.

"Vernon... is that you?" Aunt Petunia sounded- alarmed? Embarrassed? For just a moment, it flashed through Harry's horrified brain that he might have caught his horse-faced aunt in flagrante delicto with a blind idiot. He resisted the temptation to run away screaming. "Who is it?" Petunia demanded, angrily. Harry answered her by opening the door and going in.

His Aunt was sitting, quite respectably, on the settee, reading a newspaper. Harry shrugged to himself, and was about to turn away, when several things struck him. The first was a large, flat book, hurled by his Aunt, and it struck him on the forehead, before angling away to bounce off the open door and hit the floor.

"Ow- what did I do?" Harry spluttered, trying to check his glasses were unbroken and glare at Petunia at the same time, before the second two things struck him. The first- his Aunt's face looked both tear-stained, guilty, and plain terrified. The second, that the newspaper had moving pictures, and was emblazoned with the masthead of "The Daily Prophet". The final two things which struck him were that a)there were several more past editions of the wizarding newspaper, still tied up with string on the settee beside his Aunt, and b) that they were his, which had been, that morning, hidden under a floorboard in his room.

"Have you been going through my things?" he began, angrily, before his Aunt cut him off, rising to her feet and waving the newspaper at him.

"How dare you?" She stared, almost madly, he thought. "How dare you have this... this confession of your freakishness delivered to my house?"

"My owl delivers it, Aunt. No one's going to see..." he trailed off, looking down at the book she had thrown at him.  
"I can see, boy! Anyone who came into this house might see! Anyone might..." Harry wasn't listening. The book she had been reading alongside the newspaper was an atlas of Great Britain. Several towns in the nearby area had been circled in pencil on the page at which it had fallen open- probably the page Aunt Petunia had creased it open at, while it lay on her knee. His gaze moved to the newspaper in her hand. It was the most recent edition, whose lead article described the locations and casualties of several recent Death Eater attacks. Harry locked his Aunt with his gaze and moved forward suddenly, taking the newspaper from her hand before she had a chance to protest, and sitting down, pushing her down into the seat next to him as he did so. It was, he thought, probably one of the few times they had actually touched one another. He looked at the paper again, then back at her.

"I can see too."

Petunia started, flinching back, her pale eyes swivelling cow-like between her nephew and the newspaper. Then, as if on defence, her expression shifted, growing even more closed and haughty than ever, and she sneered at him.

"See, how can you? You're nothing more than a silly little child, whatever that fool Dumbledore's been telling you!"  
Harry almost laughed at that, remembering his fearful row with Dumbledore a month or so ago, and the man's subsequent humbling apology for treating him like a child. He kept his face straight though, distracted by the strange behaviour of his aunt, and the unprecedented feeling of sympathy he suddenly felt for her.

"Lord Voldemort," he began. "He's back. You were terrified when you heard me tell Uncle Vernon last summer... you're still terrified of him."

"No!" She snarled, angrily. "I'm not interested in any of you or your unnatural ways!"

"He killed my mother, Aunt!" Harry shouted it at her. "Your sister! Did she tell you what Voldemort was like, to make you so scared of him coming back? I know you hated her, for being unnatural, for being a freak, but..." he got no further. The blow knocked him sideways, almost out of the settee and on to the floor, one hand rubbing his stinging cheek, feeling the five bleeding welts there. Petunia stood up, eyes flashing, a drop of blood on each of five immaculately manicured fingernails.

"HOW DARE YOU? I loved my sister!" She was trembling with anger, and fresh tears were rising in her eyes. "I loved her... loved my little Lily from the moment she was born till the day she died. My beautiful baby sister. So clever, so innocent, so talented. Then, yes, when her real talent surfaced, I disapproved, I was scared- yes, I was scared! Scared because I could see even then how terrible someone like that would be if they wanted to use their power to hurt people. Scared that the world she was opening up, taking us all into, was a world with people like- people like..."

"Most of the people I know call him 'You-know-who'," Harry supplied, quietly, never taking his eyes off his aunt.  
"People like him." She stepped away from the table and began to pace back and forth, shaking slightly, arms wrapped around her waist. "But I never stopped loving her!" One hand went to her mouth and fidgeted at her lips. "If you could believe that then you're no better than the monster who took her from us, Potter. David and I loved her like our own daughter." She stopped, and heaved a deep sigh, turning away from him and facing the fireplace.

"Who's David?" Harry frowned.

"We were engaged to be married." Petunia's tone had taken on a dull, tragic tone. "We were only seventeen, when we all saw what Lily was... who she was. We loved her the more for it. We were fascinated- especially David. I even came to think sometimes that he preferred her to me- but I still adored her. How could I not love someone so lovely?" Mrs Dursley began to sob. Even in spite of who she was, Harry felt some urge to go to her, to comfort her- but he knew that he, being who he was, never could.

"Then... then, it was when Lily was about the age you are now. No younger. The summer holidays. David was picking her up in his car, bringing her back from the pictures, when they... came for her." She paused. "Death Eaters." Harry froze. "Two of them... I never saw them, but the man... the Marauder, he called himself,who came to the house, who told us that David was dead, and that he and his friends had taken Lily away with them for protection, he told me the names of the two who had killed my David. Just once. Malfoy and Lestrange." Harry's spine prickled.

"They... the two of themset the car on fire with their magic, left David inside, trapped. They pulled Lily out, and were going to torment her when four of her friends arrived. They... they drove off the Death Eaters somehow- saved her. I never found out their names. The stupid little man who came to the house only ever told me some idiotic school nicknames, and I can't even remember them now!" Petunia snapped, angrily, turning round once. Her face was ravaged with tears. When she saw Harry's reaction, she swiftly turned again.

Harry spoke slowly, and quietly.

"Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs. Those were the names, weren't they?"

Petunia breathed in harshly.

"How could you...?"

"Prongs was the nickname of James Potter," Harry remarked, coldly. "My 'good-for-nothing' father saved your sister's life." He hesitated a moment, and then, in an entirely different tone of voice, said, "I never knew that."

"Well, why couldn't he have saved my David too?" Aunt Petunia spun round, and all her rage seemed to wither. "And... and how many more people is... the other one...going to kill?" Slowly, almost drunkenly, she collapsed to her knees, shaking, and sobbing great wracking sobs.

"Not too many, Aunt." Harry started to walk slowly towards her. "I'm going to get rid of him, if it's the last thing I do."

As Harry stepped over the piles of editions of the "Daily Prophet" on the living room floor, and gently rested one hand on her shoulder, they both heard the small, unmistakeable sound of a key in the front door lock.

Uncle Vernon was coming home from work.


	2. The Order of the Phoenix

**Chapter Two**: The Order of the Phoenix

Ron Weasley woke from a highly agreeable dream- the details of which escaped him, but as best he could recollect, both the Patil sisters and chocolate frogs had featured quite prominently- to the confusing impression that the house was being attacked by a horde of flatulent Death Eaters firing off vomit hexes left, right, and centre. This was the only real conclusion his somewhat befuddled brain could draw from the sensations it received upon awaking, in his body, in his bed, in his room- or, at least, what had passed for his room for the last month or so, in Number 12, Grimmauld Place, London. For a couple of moments, he lay where he was, listening to the sound of several fists hammering impatiently on the front door below, and breathing in the foul air. A while later, the ability to articulate coherent and logical thought returned to him, and, almost simultaneously, two thoughts flashed across his mind. The first was:

"Someone's at the door," and the second was:  
"Augh, what the bloody hell's that smell?"

Vaguely thanking everyone's lucky stars that, at least, for once the sound of knocking seemed not to have aroused the wrath of the portraits in the hall, Ron dragged himself out of bed and pulled on a rather threadbare maroon- naturally- dressing gown with 'RW' emblazoned embarrassingly on the pocket, around a homespun but well-meaning effort at the Gryffindor crest. Hoping to escape the smell of whatever it was that had died and voided the contents of its internal organs in his room, he shuffled to the door and opened it. If anything else, the smell was worse on the landing. Up and down, doors opened, and heads peered out in confusion.

"Who in Merlin's name's that...?"  
"Better answer it, Arthur," Remus Lupin, somewhat ominously unshaven, remarked from his doorway, before withdrawing abruptly with the parting shot, "This early, it's probably important."  
"It's six o'clock in the morning," Ron's father groaned.  
"Ah, Ron's up." Molly Weasley appeared in his parents' doorway. "Do go and answer the door, dear. And-" she sniffed, "Find out whatever's making that awful smell." The door closed with a bang.

Resigning himself, Ron trudged downstairs. The knocking was growing louder, more insistent. Whoever it was was not giving up, and neither was the putrefying stench, which seemed to be coming from the hall. He could hear voices now- one responding to the door, the other cursing- both magically and rudely.

"All right, all right! Bother it, how many bolts did Sirius have to have on this wretched door... we're coming, all right!... Ow, not another enchanted Snapper... I HATE this house!" That was Hermione, no doubt. Ron briefly contemplated leaving her to it, and going back to bed, but his curiosity got the better of him, and he descended the last flight of steps into the hall, where Hermione was, as he'd already gathered, struggling with the many door fastenings and latches which literally covered the inside of the front door to the rather gothic hallway. The other voice, still using words he wouldn't have dared use within six leagues of his mother himself, was his younger sister Ginny, in rather rumpled beige pyjamas and a dark green dressing gown several sizes too big for her, who was pointing her wand at a (mercifully silent) painting and, slightly illogically, Ron thought, screaming at it to shut up. Both girls had clothespegs over their noses, the boy noticed. A wise precaution, since the vile stink was so strong in the hall that it was threatening to overcome him. He stepped past Ginny, taking care not to get between her wand and the object of her wrath, and greeted Hermione with a slight wave, trying to make it very plain that he was not in any way checking out the hem, cut, or neckline of her nightdress.

"Ron, will you give me a hand?"  
"Silencio!" - this from Ginny.  
"But why is Ginny...?"  
"We'll explain later... all RIGHT, we're doing our best!" This towards a fresh fusilade of knocks from the door, which seemed to trigger a further outburst of noxious fumes. They seemed, Ron noticed suddenly, as he wrestled with the last, rather stiff, bolt, to be billowing out from somewhere behind the painting.

The door swung open, revealing the young Auror and Metamorphmagus Nymphadora Tonks, dressed in black leather jacket, mini-skirt, a very grubby looking white t-shirt, and bright green and purple striped hair, and behind her, balancing a cage full of sleepy owl on one shoulder, while sitting on a large wooden trunk, an irritable looking Harry Potter. The two came inside, the latter hauling the trunk after him. He smiled, and greeted his best friend.

"Hi Ron, how are- what IS that smell?"  
"Ginny, I think," Ron responded, slowly putting two and two together. An exercise book bounced off the back of his head, and an inarticulate growl sounded from the offended teenager, who had been preoccupied in baring her teeth and whispering what sounded very much like a threat in the direction of the portrait.  
"Gin, good to see-" Harry managed, before Hermione threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. "Morning, 'Mione. Great to see you again too... but can I have my lungs back," he managed, eventually. Hermione released him.  
"How are you, Harry?" she asked. Ron was- unsure- about how he felt at that point. On the one hand, he was glad to see that Harry hadn't shown any more than respectable pleasure at being hugged by the fairly thinly clad bushy-haired witch, but on the other, he bitterly envied Harry's composure, being sure that, if Hermione had greeted him like that, he would probably not have been able to form a whole sentence for several weeks.

"I'm... OK, Hermione." Harry flinched slightly from the question, and a barrier seemed to go up behind his eyes. Then he shuddered again. "But what is that smell? It smells like Crabbe and Goyle eating curry."  
"Ah..." Hermione blushed slightly. "Actually, I'm... ah, afraid that might really be Ginny and I."  
"OK." Harry led Hermione further into the hall, and- surprising everyone, for he was usually rather reticent about physical contact- put one arm around her shoulder, and another around Ginny's, who, for all her greater maturity now than in past years, jumped slightly at the contact. "I'm not exactly what I'd call a fashion expert, girls," he rolled his eyes to draw attention to his clunky square-rimmed glasses, "But take it from someone who has, at least, appeared in Witch Weekly. New perfume time."

Ginny stamped her foot.

"Don't be... like my brother, Harry." She gestured at the painting, which from this angle Harry and Ron could both see contained a madly- yet silently- screaming Mrs Black, the mother of Harry's late and much-lamented godfather, whose magical portraits were wont to scream obscenities at anyone who disturbed their rest. "Notice anything different? To be specific, hear anything different?"  
"The old bat's lost her voice," Harry commented. Evidently, however, the 'old bat' had not lost her power of hearing, for Mrs Black's face contorted even more grimly than usual. The stench issued forth with momentarily redoubled force.  
"We switched the sense impressions on the painting," Hermione told him, a little impatiently. "Since no one's been able to stop her screaming, Ginny had the idea of a spell to make it so we couldn't hear her. The trouble was, we'd only got as far as moving it on to a different sense when you started to knock."  
"Sorry," Harry apologised. "I'd forgotten all about the pictures."

Tonks, having tripped over several items of furniture en route, was regarding the painting critically.  
"That's damned advanced magic, you two." She raised her eyebrows. "The enchantments on those things are- well, put it this way, Tom Riddle was a friend of the Blacks back when he was young, and they say he did a bit of enchantment work for the family to make ends meet." Harry drew back from the painting, as if stung, but Tonks continued. "You must have found a clever way of getting round the protection spells, Hermione."  
Hermione shook her head.  
"I just checked the spell for mistakes. Most of it's Ginny's invention."  
"Well, Ginny, well done... but..." Tonks swiftly drew her wand, levelled it at each portrait in turn, and snapped out:

"Sensoria inversa!" In a moment, the smell had vanished... and Mrs Black's painted rage had vanished with it. Instead, the image in each portrait was wrinkling its face in disgust, and holding its nose. Tonks smirked, and blew on her wand ostentatiously. A few sparks flew from it and set light to the carpet, but the glass of water she knocked off the sideboard a moment later in returning her wand to her pocket soon extinguished the embryonic blaze. "I had a few ideas of my own," the Auror grinned. "And now, you kids may be able to burn the candle at both ends and in the middle as well, but we grown-ups-" Harry snorted, since Tonks was certainly less than five years older than any of them, "-have to catch up on sleep lost shepherding children across the countryside," she continued firmly. "Good night, sleep tight, and mind Ginny doesn't bite."

That said, Tonks scuttled up the stairs, but not quite quick enough to escape a:  
"Do sleep well, old mother Nymphadora," called out by a diminutive red-haired witch.  
"Now," Ron led Harry into the kitchen and sat down opposite him, the two girls following, "Before Mum and Dad get up and start feeding you till you burst, let's hear it: what's been going on?"

* * *

_Yesterday evening._

It had not been a good day for Vernon Dursley. The morning and afternoon had both been spent in a series of inconvenient and frustrating meetings with his fellow directors and managers, trying to resolve some of the problems which were currently plaguing Grunnings Drills. All of Vernon's eminently sensible and well-thought out suggestions- most of which, mark you, he had spent considerable time and effort preparing- for mass redundancies, closure of subsidiary factories, increased mechanisation and computerisation, and reduction of paid holiday entitlement for employees, had been rejected. Apparently they would have led to bad PR, and adverse press coverage. Instead, there were to be salary- and worse, possible job cuts at the management level, and a significant cull on the perks available to directors. Vernon turned his car roughly into Privet Drive and cursed. He'd left in disgust, straight after the meeting, not bothering to stay behind for the evening as he often did, and would have been home considerably earlier, if it hadn't been for a traffic jam on the outskirts of Little Whingeing, which he eventually saw had been caused because the traffic lights had been vandalised by some local hoodlums. If only his fine, public spirited, wonderful son Dudders had been there to give the filthy yobbos a sound thrashing. Still fulminating on his misfortunes, Vernon parked the car in the driveway, and stumped up to the front door.

He was rather surprised by the muffled sounds of concern from the living room as he entered the hall, and then enraged to hear his nephew's voice. The ignorant, ingrate weirdo of a child was a millstone round his family's neck at the best of times, and just hearing him speak at all was often wearisome to Vernon, but now there was a definite way he was speaking, speaking funny words, some silly nonsense... NO! He wouldn't DARE. Vernon slammed the door open and stormed in.

"Potter!" He snarled. The boy's... stick was in his hand, a sulky expression on his face, and, lying on the coffee table by the settee, in a neat pile, with Potter's stick just touching the top of them, was a large stack of yellowing newspapers. Not normal newspapers, of course, but... freak newspapers.

"HOW DARE YOU!" Vernon stormed forward, swinging a meaty fist at Potter, who dodged back. He only then noticed his wife, Petunia, cringing in the opposite corner. Obviously she'd already come upon the boy polluting their nice, normal house, with his abnormal wickedness. "How dare you scatter the evidence of your weirdness, your abnormality around the floor of my house?" He swatted the offending neat pile of papers with his fist, sending it scattering over the floor. Oblivious, Vernon swung round on the boy again. "Scattered everywhere, where anyone might see... go to your room, boy! Stay there! Get out of my sight!"  
Harry pushed away from the wall, and looked straight past Vernon to his Aunt, who shuddered, looking away from him disdainfully.  
"Do as your Uncle says, boy," she sneered, wiping her face. "I warned you what would happen if he caught you looking at those... those disgusting things, and I..."  
"You lying..." Harry began, his face flushing with anger, but Vernon cut him off-

"DON'T CONTRADICT YOUR AUNT, Potter! Get out! Out!"  
"I'm going." Harry flung the door back open. "The air's too rancid in here anyway." He paused, halfway up the stairs, and said, as loudly as he could, just to make his relatives cringe at the thought of what the neighbours might hear, "I might go for a fly on my broomstick later, to get some fresh air- you know, with me being a WIZARD and everything."  
Later, Harry was rather surprised that Vernon hadn't caught up with him and tried to beat him against the banister rail for using the W-word in the house.

* * *

It was one o'clock in the morning, and Harry, still fully dressed apart from his discarded shoes and socks, was lying on his stomach reading in bed. He'd occupied his evening, in his room, in writing a couple of letters to Ron and Hermione at Grimmauld Place. Just the usual, just to let them know that he was all right (he wasn't), not contemplating doing anything stupid (given Harry's general view that not hexing the Dursleys into the middle of next week was stupid, he was), and there was no sign of Death Eaters in the vicinity. The last, at least, was true. He hadn't mentioned his... frank conversation with his Aunt. That, he felt, was something he'd rather not go into in a letter. 

Given time to allow his anger over her most recent betrayal to cool, he had come to the conclusion that, even if her actions hadn't been in the least acceptable, he could at least understand her. Harry was, for the first time that he could recall, prepared to entertain the view that his Aunt was, just possibly, a member of the Human Race, albeit a distinctly unpleasant one.

He could understand how, when her innate fears about the wizarding world, not to mention the jealousy of his mother that she'd denied- a denial he didn't believe for one moment- had been proved so tragically true, she had wanted as little to do with that world as she possibly could, and how she might then have taken up with someone so... ruthlessly Mugglish as his uncle Vernon. He could even begin to understand, if never forgive, how when he, Harry Potter, the living symbol of her sister's absorption into that world- and her death as a result of that magical world, turned up on her doorstep, she had been less than welcoming.

A thought popped into his head. It wasn't in the least a happy thought, especially because Harry knew- had known since Voldemort's return- that if he were right, his Aunt might be rather justified, that perhaps a fair amount of Petunia's hatred for him might be because she blamed her sister's death on him, and on what he represented. He wondered, rather uncomfortably, if his Aunt actually knew that Lily Potter had died for her infant son. It was at this point that he became aware of raised voices in the room below.

"... think I'm an idiot!" That was Vernon, the voice moving about as he paced angrily back and forth. Work problems, Harry supposed, with some malicious glee, only to change his train of thought a moment later, as he heard Petunia's voice, quieter, more muffled, the words indistinct, but the tone unmistakeably scared.

"LIES!" Uncle Vernon suddenly thundered. "I will not have it... books... papers... caught you looking through his things..."

Harry froze. Evidently Aunt Petunia's efforts to slide the blame wholly on to Harry had not gone entirely unnoticed. This time, he could (with the aid of a little wandless amplification magic) make out a little of his Aunt's words.

"But if He's back, Vernon, we might all be in danger... my little Duddy-kins... those Dementors last year..."  
"BLAST IT woman!" Vernon bawled. In the next room, Harry heard Dudley's bedroom door sidle open. "It's not our business. Keep out of their weird little world and keep that damned brat out of ours! That's what you promised me and that's what I'll have. This Foldydork or whatever he is is their problem, not mine."  
"Vernon, he killed my sister!"  
"Bloody good riddance!" Harry's fists clenched of their own volition, and he half-rose to his feet before he stopped himself. No. What was the point. Like he cared what a fat oaf like Dursley thought about his family any longer. "I'm telling you, Petunia, STAY OUT OF IT! I won't have that bitch and her bastard child..."  
"Do not call Lily that aga-" Petunia's voice rose, high and snarling, to be cut off abruptly by a muffled thump. Harry heard her shriek suddenly, and then the sound of sobbing.

Vernon might have continued to shout, or he might have stopped, and asked his wife for forgiveness. Harry never heard, one way or the other. Two seconds after the sound of the blow his door was torn from its hinges and forced deep into the plaster of the opposite landing wall in a flash of red light, and the Boy-Who-Lived, his knuckles white about his wand, his eyes like miniature icebergs, was out on the landing and heading for the stairs. Dudley, crouched at the top of the steps, his face frightened, looked round, and snarled,

"Get back to bed, Potter- this isn't your business!" He looked terrified, and close to tears. Almost, Harry felt pity for him. Then he saw his Uncle, young, in Dudley's face.  
"I'm part of this family, Dursley," Harry grated, his voice a whisper. "More's the pity." His wand flicked out towards Dudley's face. "Just as you're part of mine. In fact, you're about the only part. The rest of my relatives met something called a Killing Curse. You're about as thick as concrete, Dudley, but I imagine even you can work out what that means. Unless you'd like a demonstration, get back into your room and shut the door."  
Dudley moved with all the grace of an anvil, but the speed of a coward.  
Harry never remembered descending the stairs. He did, however, recollect kicking the living room door open. Vernon was standing over the glass coffee table, a surprised, and almost horrified expression on his face, one fat fist still upraised, staring down at his wife, who sat sprawled on the floor, one hand clutching the side of her face, her eyes wide and shocked.

Harry Potter, his wand aimed straight between his uncle's eyes, spoke quietly and calmly.

"Get away from her, Vernon Dursley. This instant, or I'll kill you right where you stand."

* * *

"Whoo! Go Harry!" Ron thumped the table in front of him, and cheered. Hermione glared at him. 

"Ignore him, he's got the sensitivity and emotional depth of a duckpond," she sighed. "Go on, Harry."

"I need a drink," Harry muttered. His face was lined and weary, and his lack of sleep was definitely beginning to tell. Wordlessly, Ginny pressed a glass of water into his hand, exchanging a glance with Hermione. While neither girl had quite Ron's vicarious desire to hear the latest gossip on Harry's feud with his relatives- although, truth be told, Ginny was enjoying the dramatic aspects as much as her brother, she was just more subtle about it- after some of the events of last year, they both felt it was wise to let Harry vent his feelings as soon as possible.

* * *

"What did you say?" Vernon straightened up, striding furiously towards Harry. "You threatened me- in my own house-"  
"The fat fool can hear!" Harry exclaimed in mock amazement. "Mind you, I suppose you ought to recognise violence when you see it."  
"Shut up, boy!" Vernon was turning even purpler than before. Harry sneered.  
"Or what? You're going to do what, Vernon? Lock me in my room? Punch me? Kick me?" He twitched his wand suggestively. "I don't think so. Not any more. Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, for they are subtle, and quick to anger." 

Vernon lunged for him, snarling- only to stop, abruptly, as his eyes, for the first time, seemed to register Harry's wand, levelled at his face, or perhaps the pitiless cold fury alight in his nephew's eyes.

For a moment there, they stood frozen, and then, very slowly, the rage in Vernon's face was replaced by another look, one of low and sly cunning.  
"You can't fool me, boy." Uncle Vernon sneered. "I know you can't do... whatsit in the holidays, remember. You almost got expelled last year. You'd never risk it again."  
"Oh no?" Harry arched his eyebrows.  
"Something to do with..." Vernon frowned, his piggy face twisting as he tried to remember. "Yes, the Decree for the Restriction of Underage... Thingummy."

"WIZARDRY, Vernon Dursley!" Harry bellowed, knocking Vernon back a pace. Behind them, on the carpet, Petunia made a sound somewhere between a whimper and a growl. "The Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry. Y'know, I didn't expect a present, of course, but I'd have thought even you might remember how _old_ I am."  
He waited a moment there, watching as Vernon's face puckered in confusion, then slowly drained of colour until it was almost white.

"I got my OWL results just before my birthday," Harry smiled, his face and voice to all appearances calm, happy, and conversational- if one ignored the faint wobble to his tone which betrayed the effort he was putting into restraining his anger. "I actually did rather well, since you ask... which meant that, although I've still got my advanced studying to do, to get my NEWTS, I am actually a qualified wizard, and, as of my sixteenth birthday," he ground out the words slowly, looking into Vernon's suddenly terrified face, "no... longer... underage."

Vernon made a sound somewhere between that of a balloon slowly deflating, and a mouse squeaking. Harry's eyes blazed, and he lightly brushed his wand over Vernon's temple, holding it there just for a moment. Mr Dursley was shaking. Then, suddenly, in one smooth movement, Harry swept his arm away to the side and let go of his wand, allowing it to drop on to the settee. Vernon relaxed, letting out his breath in one deep gasp. The instant the danger was passed, his white face reddened again, and he started to raise a fist. If the filthy, ingrate brat thought he was going to get away with...

He never completed the thought. Even as Harry's fingers loosed his wand, they had begun to curl. The movement of his arm, as it had swung back, had smoothly reversed and his hand shot forward in an arc, striking Vernon hard on the chin with an uppercut that lifted him clean off his feet and back across the room. With a tremendous crash that shook the floor, he fell through the expensive glass coffee table, and landed painfully on his back on the floor. Aunt Petunia shrieked.

Harry walked over to him, absent-mindedly summoning his wand to his hand, and pushing it into his back pocket.

"I don't particularly like my Aunt," he commented. "Now that it comes to it. Frankly, I don't think she's a very nice person, but," his voice cooled, "She is my blood relative, and I would like you to understand this, Vernon Dursley-" He noticed that the man had split his trousers. "- If you ever- ever, raise your fists to her again, and I hear about it, I will use my wand next time. After that, I won't have to do it again." He turned, and picked his way across the broken glass to the door. "I'm going to stay with some other weirdos now, all right? If you need to reach me- well, actually, tough luck. I'm just going upstairs to pack, then I'll be off. I suggest you stay in here until I've gone."

Packing didn't take Harry long- after all, for the past five years, every moment he'd spent at Privet Drive had been spent eagerly awaiting the moment he'd leave, and it was barely half an hour before he was dragging a levitating and invisible (thanks to his father's old Invisibility Cloak, one of Harry's proudest possessions) trunk downstairs and out of the door. As he closed the door behind him, and began to consider the more practical aspects of a journey to London- he knew, after last year's disaster at the Department of Mysteries, that the Weasleys had decided to keep their children safe at Grimmauld Place, rather than risk attack at the Burrow- a somewhat extraordinary figure moved out from the pool of yellow light at the base of a streetlight.

She was dressed as a 'goth'- black leather coat and mini-skirt, white t-shirt, black fishnet tights and a pale, made-up face below an untidy mop of black hair whose messiness rivalled his own. She made her way quite purposefully towards him. Harry's eyes narrowed, then he studied her face more closely. Something about the eyes was familiar... that, and the shape of the nose... yes.

"Hello, Tonks?" He had long since given up being irritable with members of the Order he caught watching him. "What brings you out here?"  
"Night shift," Tonks sighed gloomily. She didn't bother to elaborate- they both knew only too well. "And don't ask about the outfit," she added, catching Harry's eye and rolling hers slightly. "Just remember there's one thing you've got to keep in mind if you ever gamble with the Weasley twins. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" she shouted, making a few curtains twitch. "Anyhow, you all right, Harry?"  
"Huh? Me?" Harry leant on the streetlight for a moment. "Oh, I'm wonderful," he remarked, with a false smile. He'd caught Tonks' fleeting glance at the lighted windows of Number Four's sitting room, and guessed she'd overheard at least some of what had transpired. "Um, have you got transport back to London? Only I could do with a lift, and there's not really much point you staying here guarding my house now, is there?"

* * *

"And that's about it," Harry finished, setting the empty glass on one side. "We caught the Knight Bus to London- stopped outside Diagon Alley, since Tonks didn't think it'd be too clever to draw attention here, popped into a room at the Leaky Cauldron for an hour or two while she chatted to a few Order contacts, then I took her down the Underground, and then-" 

"Bloody Hell, Harry!" Ron interrupted, his face scarlet, and looking frantically at Ginny and Hermione. "I mean- wicked, she's drop dead gorgeous, but we don't need to know all the-"

"Ron..." Hermione sighed, exchanging a resigned look with Harry, "Sorry to bring you back to the realms of reality, but Harry is referring to taking Tonks through the Muggle Underground Railway, in order to get here."

"Oh... er, right. You mean the Tubes Dad's been going on about, don't you?" Ron shook his head. "Sorry, it's too early for me. You dragged me out of a really good dream."

"Thank you, Ronald, we'll let you know," Hermione pushed back her hair with one hand. "And then," she finished, to Harry, "You came here."

"And then I came here," Harry smiled. "I hear there's going to be an Order meeting tonight?"

"That's right," Ron nodded. "No idea what it's about though- although I did hear Mum say Dumbledore wanted to tell us all about the new Dark Arts teacher this year- but that's not exactly Order business, is it?"

"Well, whoever they are, they've got to be an improvement on Umbridge," Hermione noted. "Still, that's all we really know- we're still as much in the dark as you, Harry," she added, somewhat hurriedly, recalling Harry's irritation at being isolated last year.

"That," Harry said, with an unaccustomedly grim look appearing on his face, "Is something I'm going to change."

* * *


	3. Making the Best Of It

_This one starts out rather dark, before making an abrupt shift in tone. I'm trying to split the difference between 'public Harry' and 'private Harry'. Hopefully it doesn't jar too much._

* * *

**Chapter Three: Making the Best of It**

Harry had only barely finished his tale with that veiled hint as to his future plans, and none of his three friends had had the chance to ask him what he'd meant by it when Mr and Mrs Weasley had come down the stairs and into the kitchen. Molly had, of course, made her usual huge fuss of Harry, hugging him until he turned scarlet and praising him on having grown a few inches- which he thought was unlikely, and imagined that it had rather slipped Molly's mind that it was only early August- whilst at the same time scolding Ron and Ginny for not plying their guest with breakfast.

There hadn't really been much further time to talk- with barely another arrangement made, Harry had been practically ladelled full of hot porridge and, thus cosseted and warmed, appropriately harried up to bed in the room he'd shared with Ron last Autumn.

He couldn't hide from himself his relief at being alone. As the door swung shut on Mrs Weasley's exhortations to him to get some sleep and not come downstairs before one pm, he sank back into the bed and allowed his face to relax, letting all the masks of expression drain away. Sometimes he felt as if all he did was act his feelings any more.

It wasn't true, he could see that intellectually- his behaviour at Privet Drive last night had hardly been the action of a cold, perfectly rational being, for all something about the bleak and controlled manner of his anger deeply disturbed him. He had been genuinely pleased, too, to see his friends again, but by the end of their short conversation he had felt exhausted, not just from lack of sleep, but from the feeling of pretence. It was as if, well, all his real feelings had burned out after a couple of minutes talk, and he had been left simply trying to behave in the way that he thought 'fitted'.

Harry closed his eyes, hoping that maybe sleep would help. It hadn't in the past. He still cared- about Ron and Hermione, Ginny and the rest of the Weasleys, about his other friends in the organisation they'd nicknamed "Dumbledore's Army" last year, about Hagrid and Dumbledore himself, about his ex-Professor Lupin, and about humanity as a whole, he was a little surprised to realise, and what Voldemort might do. He felt, however, drained, as though the shock of Sirius' death, and the horror of what Professor Dumbledore had told him last June had put something of a strain upon his 'feeling muscles', and anything too emotional, felt for too long, seemed to gradually leak out of him, leaving only a dissatisfying sense of fatalistic ennui.

_Well,_ Harry told himself, sarcastically, _it's not the end of the world, is it? At least it helped with the Occlumency._

Never the less, he could, as almost always seemed the case now when he was left alone in the quiet dark, feel the thoughts ticking round inside his head like a Muggle computer, carefully evaluating, weighing and measuring strategy and situation, and processing data. He knew that he was thinking far too hard to go to sleep. It was a simple matter of adrenaline and brain activity levels. If he didn't relax, distract his mind with something unconnected and trivial, he would never go to...

* * *

"Harry? It's gone lunchtime," a girl's hushed voice was saying, and a hand was shaking his shoulder. He groaned and stretched, opening his eyes and fumbling for his glasses. Ginny handed them to him, and stepped back slightly. "We were beginning to wonder if you wanted to sleep all day," she explained, indicating with a glance a plate of sandwiches resting on his bedside table. 

Harry pushed himself up to a sitting position, and swallowed, making a face.

"Ugh, my mouth tastes like old carpet," he remarked.

"I didn't wish to know that, thanks, Mr Potter," Ginny commented wryly. "How are you feeling now?"

"Fine, Gin, fine," Harry reiterated, slightly annoyed at having to answer the same question whenever anyone saw him. She frowned at him.

"If you say so, Harry."

"Where are the others?" he asked.

"Hermione's showing Ron a bit of Muggle London," Ginny explained. "They wanted to take you with them-" she added quickly, perhaps reading in Harry's face some disappointment at being excluded from the group, "- but Mum said to let you sleep."

Harry nodded, and investigated the pile of sandwiches. Cheese. Good- he wasn't especially hungry, and wanted something he could eat fairly quickly.

Ginny went on chattering.  
"I thought I'd stay, so you'd at least have someone to talk to when you finally woke up- besides, I don't feel right walking round the Muggle city. I know it's silly, but I always feel like I'm intruding on something, you know?"

Harry nodded again, then thought about the comment in more detail, and shook his head decisively.

"You shouldn't, Ginny," he told her. "We're a part of their world, just as they're part of ours. It's all this thinking about Wizards and Muggles as 'Them And Us' that gives Voldemort half his power."

"And the other half comes because we daren't say his name," Ginny reflected thoughtfully, in response to her own involuntary shudder at the sound of the name spoken aloud.

"That's about it, I reckon," Harry said. "Words mean a lot, not just in magic. I can't see anyone quaking in their boots too terrified to say 'Little Tommy Riddle', can you?"

"Harry!" Ginny laughed. "You can't call V-Voldemort that..." she giggled again.

"Why? Think he's going to sue me?" Harry smirked, before his face grew serious. "I'm afraid of a hell of a lot of things, Ginny. I've been petrified of Voldemort for years, and it's not done me or anyone a bit of good. He feeds on fear, uses it. I think he's had enough out of me to being going on with."

* * *

"Mrs Weasley?" Harry was standing in the kitchen doorway, empty plate in his hand, a slightly nervous expression on his face. Ron and Ginny's mother looked up from her chair by the fireplace, where she'd been talking to- or at, depending on your point of view- Crookshanks, Hermione's enormous ginger cat, and beamed at him. 

"Ah, Harry dear, you're finally awake." She swept over to him and took the plate away, laying it in the sink and fumbling for her wand. "Oh, and Harry, I've been meaning to say when you arrived- you just took us all a little bit by surprise, dropping in so early on- not that you're not welcome of course-" she found the wand, and fired off a quick _scourgify_ charm at the plate, "-Quite the opposite, and, after all, poor Sirius did leave the house to you in his will, so even if we can't sort out all the legal fiddly business while this place is being hidden from everyone..." Molly shook her head, abruptly. "Oh, I'm sorry dear, I'm going all over the place this morning. I meant to say, you're sixteen now, and you know you're always a part of this family. Do call me Molly, dear, please, it's shorter and more comfortable than being 'Mrs Weasley' all the time," She turned round and smiled at him, "Ah, look at you, you'll be as tall as poor James was one day soon, mark my words. You're growing up fast, Harry."

"Thanks, M-Molly," Harry hesitated. "That's actually part of what I wanted to talk to you about- me being grown up now, I mean."

"Oh- oh really, dear?" Molly turned back to the plate, tidying it away, and suddenly seemed more wary. Harry knew he shouldn't have been surprised by that. Molly cared for him like one of her own large family, and just as with them, was inclined to be rather on the over-protective side. Last year, she'd argued staunchly against Harry's inclusion in the business of the Order of the Phoenix, frequently locking horns with Harry's godfather on the subject. Harry adored her, and respected her opinion, but, none the less, things had to change.

"Look, Molly, I'm guessing you and the rest know about the prophecy?" She looked round at him sharply.

"The Professor told you then...?" she asked, sadly.

Harry nodded.

"After the... after Sirius died. I didn't really give him much choice."

"Oh, so soon..." Molly sighed quietly. "I suppose Professor Dumbledore knows best, of course, but it's hard, Harry. I know you don't feel it, but you are still so much a child."

"I'm involved," Harry told her firmly, folding his arms. "I don't think the Order can protect me, and I certainly don't think they can give me the rest of my 'childhood' before I face him." He fixed her with a look. "How many other children, Mrs Weasley? How many people would have to die while Voldemort waits for me to grow up?"

"Oh, Harry," tears started in Molly's eyes, and she clasped her hands.

"That's how I've got to think, Molly," he apologised. "So- well, I'm not exactly asking your permission- I'd be lying if I said that, I've made up my mind... but because you've been the closest I've had to a mother I've got to tell you. Tonight, I'm going to face the Order and ask... tell them to let me in to the whole of it. I'm not going to wait any longer."

Molly gave a quiet cry, and enfolded him in a tight hug.

"Oh Harry," she said, and he was horrified to realise that she was sobbing, "It only seems yesterday that

Percy," she stumbled over the name, and Harry was reminded of another rent in the Weasley family, again indirectly caused by Voldemort's evil, "was showing you and Ron how to get on to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters for the first time. Now you've all grown up so fast... where has all the time gone?"

"It was a pretty hectic day," Harry told her quietly. "And this evening's not exactly going to be quiet, if I'm not mistaken."

They regarded one another silently for a moment. Just as Harry was about to say something, there came a loud bang from the hall, and a flash of green light under the door.

* * *

Molly Weasley had never seen the light of a Killing Curse, but she'd heard it described, and her face blanched at the flash. As they heard the main door open with a creak, the flash came again, and again, and they heard three screams. 

Harry drew his wand in a second- another flash- and tore the door open.

"Expelliarmus!" he yelled, and with a clatter, a wand flew across the quarter of hallway Molly could see from the kitchen. There was another flash, and a familiar high, cross voice spoke.

"Ow, Harry, that was my wrist- what the hell'd you do that for?"

"Hey," Molly heard Ron say, his own voice hot with anger and surprise, "Leave Ginny alone!"

Mrs Weasley moved into the doorway. Another flash, this time a murky khaki light filled the hall- emanating, she realised, with a sudden relief and resignation, from the pictures. Ron and Hermione, both looking rather puzzled, their arms laden with plastic bags of shopping, stood in the doorway. Ginny was standing on the stairs, rubbing her wrist ruefully, while a red-faced and mortified-looking Harry retrieved her wand from the floor and passed it up to her.

"Sorry... I... er..." his voice dropped slightly, "Um... thought you were Voldemort."

"Well!" Ginny struck a tragic pose on the stairs, holding one hand to her brow, "Isn't that charming, Hermione, Mother?" She cast an appealing glance to the two of them.

"Men!" Hermione exclaimed, shaking her head in despair. "Sorry we left you, Harry, but I wanted to get a few things for the house."

"A few things?" Ron croaked, while Ginny descended the stairs and resumed her efforts to curse the paintings into darkness. "She told me we were going to the Muggles' Diagon Alley," he spluttered. "I didn't know there were so many people in the world, or they had so many elbows!"

"Honestly, Ron, you do moan so," Hermione sighed, piling a few more bags of shopping in his arms. "We only covered about a fifth of Oxford Street, if that. I'm glad to see you up and about, Harry. Have any of the others arrived yet?"

Molly answered her, at the same time beckoning her and Ron across the threshhold in a curiously formal manner, and they all filed back to the kitchen, choosing to leave Ginny alone with her misfiring spell.

"Well, dear, Tonks woke up a while before Harry- just after you left. She's nipped along to the Ministry to pass the message to Kingsley- although Arthur doesn't think he'll be able to come tonight, what with that attack over in Cornwall on Tuesday, and Professor Dumbledore owled me mid-morning to say that he and Professor Snape will be coming down on the train at about seven." She smiled. Ron rolled his eyes.

"Figures Snape would turn up to any talk about the new Dark Arts teacher," he commented.

"Do you suppose this means the new teacher's going to be a member of the Order?" Hermione wondered, thoughtfully. "It would be a good idea if they were, after last year- although..." she trailed off, looking significantly at Harry and Ron. Although Professor Dumbledore was probably one of the wisest Wizards in the world, he did seem to demonstrate a bit of a blind spot when it came to choosing his staff.

"Just so long as he's remembered to put "Applicant Must Not Be Pure Evil" in the job description this time, things are bound to look up," Ron observed, helping himself to a cheese scone and receiving a stern glare from Molly for doing so.

"Ahem," Remus remarked, from the doorway.

Ron grinned,

"Kind, friendly, helpful savage hairy beasts notwithstanding, of course," he said.

"Thank you." Lupin stepped inside, just as the hall behind him turned several different colours, most of which had been kicked out of the rainbow for fighting in the back row. "Incidentally, could anyone enlighten me as to why young Virginia is... doing whatever she's doing out there?"

"She tried to invent a Switching Spell from scratch and use it on the paintings," Hermione sighed. "It seems to be cycling through a different sort of perception each time. If we could only make it settle on making the paintings _taste_ bad, then we could leave it alone."

"I thought Tonks fixed it?" Harry asked. Hermione shook her head.

"I'm afraid not. She just managed to deflect it- that time. Ginny's spell seems to have got itself tangled up in the anti-Charm wards around the original painting enchantment, so now we can't even set it back to normal."

"Normal?" Ron snorted. "Tell me when life's ever been normal?"

* * *

The afternoon had been better, Harry thought, by most standards of judgement. He craved solitude, but he had to admit that the time passed more... painlessly if he didn't get it. Granted, Hermione had made the three of them go over their OWL results again and again (they had all done rather well- Hermione had achieved Outstanding in everything except Potions, where she had just fallen short, and Ron's results, although less spectacular, were easily enough for him to continue in the Advanced classes he had chosen. Harry was slightly disturbed to hear both he and Hermione (and Ginny, when she passed that way to wash a large quantity of unexplained Stinksap out of her hair, muttering death threats towards whoever had come up with the idea of magical portraits in the first place, referring to the Defence Association in much the same breath as other classes like Potions or Advanced Magical Theory (being taken by Hermione, as she was fascinated by the concept and thought that knowing more about the essentials of what made magic 'magic' might be useful if she were to become a Muggle Relations Officer, and by Harry, as a grounding in the subject was considered valuable, although not essential, to an Auror training applicant). 

Ron drummed his fingers on the table top.

They had all, after a brief exploration of the corners and attics of what was now Harry's house, retired to the kitchen once more, where Hermione had briefly outlined some of the changes Dumbledore and Remus had made to the house's protection wards in the last month or so. After all, as Ron reminded the other two, they couldn't know for sure what secrets Kreacher, Sirius' former treacherous House-elf, might have given away to Narcissa Malfoy and, by extension, to Voldemort. Now, it seemed, the door locks were set so that no one could gain admittance while the night-wards were set, unless they were let in from the inside. In the daytime, somewhat illogically, any member of the Order who knew the secret could open the door- but (explaining why Ron and Hermione had stood on the doorstep until Ron's mother had beckoned them in) could not enter unless invited. This wasn't an intended precaution, but rather a slightly unfortunate hiccup in the composition of the new day-wards. Both Harry and Hermione were mildly amused by the vampire-like parallels of it all.

"I still haven't the foggiest what I want to do," Ron complained, drawing the subject of conversation back to their future plans. "Except maybe something in the Ministry- I wouldn't mind trying to be an Unspeakable, actually." He paused, looking round at the earnest faces of his friends. "That... was a joke," he sighed. Harry and Hermione allowed their faces to relax, but Hermione grimaced a little.

"Don't-" she shuddered. "I wouldn't want to see the Department of Mysteries again as long as I live."

"_Anyway,_" Ron said. "NEWTs or no NEWTs,"

"And no NEWTs is good NEWTs," Harry chimed in. Hermione snorted. Ron rolled his eyes. "Can I finish a sentence, please? I was just going to say..."

"Of course you can finish a sentence, Ron," Ginny interrupted, sitting heavily down at the table and putting up a hand to steady the towel wrapped round her hair.

"Ahem." Ron looked murderously round the group. "As... I... was... saying... there's also a new term's Quidditch." Hermione sighed heavily. "I'm guessing McGonagall will get rid of Harry's lifetime ban as soon as he gets off the train- so, who d'you reckon's going to be on the team this year?"

They looked round at each other. After a moment's silence, Hermione cast her eyes heavenwards.

"Why me?" she asked. "Ron... I realise this may be a bit of a shock, and I don't pretend to be an expert at Quidditch... but let me just point a few little somethings out to you. Point the first, Angelina Johnson has left. Point the second, so have Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet. Point the third, despite what Dumbledore said about Umbridge's decrees and so on, Fred and George aren't coming back." She smiled sweetly at Ron's rather horrified expression.

"With the exception of your two replacement Bashers-"

"Beaters, Herm," Ron told her, with more than a flicker of irritation. Hermione, Harry was sure, had known perfectly well what the correct term was.

"Who I understand weren't very much of a success," she understated, and paused again, to look meaningfully round at Harry, Ginny, and Ron,

"I am sitting in the presence of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. So, don't wonder, decide."

Ron gaped. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. Finally, Harry asked,

"So what's team strategy this year, Captain?"

Ron turned purple.

-

-

-

"Me, Captain?" he finally found his voice. "Are you mad? Remember last year?"

"I'm not likely to forget it," Harry said, and there was a tinge of iron in his voice. Ginny and Hermione exchanged troubled glances, but it seemed as though the Boy Who Lived's brief melancholy had passed, as he seemed to draw himself up, and answered lightly, "I've not played for a year, and I think I'm going to be a bit busy to try being Team Captain now. Tom probably wouldn't be too accommodating if I asked him to fit "Gryffindor Vs. Evil Bastard" in on the weekend between Slytherin Vs. Ravenclaw and Gryffindor Vs. Hufflepuff, don't you think?"

Hermione leant forward, examining Harry's eyes. There was a light in them, a dangerous glint that didn't seem to sit with his cheerful banter. She got the disturbing impression that, somehow, only a small fraction of Harry was giving its attention to the conversation- to _pretending to be normal_ she realised, with a sudden, frightening insight. _So, what's the rest of him thinking about? _"So," Harry spoke again, and, as if noticing her scrutiny, shifted in his seat. "It's between you and Ginny really, and you're the chess master." Ginny nodded her agreement, making her mound of towelling teeter alarmingly.

"Unless you want either Kirke or Sloper as Captain," she teased.

Ron shuddered.

"Don't remind me. God, that makes every time they foul up my responsibility," he moaned, then smiled. "Quidditch Team Captain. Wow." His mouth twitched.

"Right. Now we bloody well need a team. I..."

"Oh, Ron, you've got weeks to think about that," Hermione began.

"I'm Captain, Mione," Ron told her. "Aren't you always telling me to plan ahead?" He parroted: "Don't leave it till later, you big second-rater," mimicking the talking Homework Planners Hermione had bought himself and Harry last Christmas. "The sooner we start, the better. We've got a keeper- me, unless anyone who's actually some good at it comes forward this Autumn," he went on hastily, before anyone could try to give a shaky compliment to his erratic goalkeeping. "We've got two Beaters, even if they have got the Bludgers for brains instead of on the end of their bats, we've got a Seeker," he nodded at Harry, "And one Chaser," he glanced at Ginny. "So..."

Ginny drew breath sharply, cutting him off.

"And what?" she enquired dangerously, "Makes you so sure that Harry's the one to be Seeker? He hasn't played for a year, remember?"

Hermione's jaw dropped. Ginny had never been anything less than worshipful of Harry's skills, whether during her childhood crush or later, now that she seemed, almost, to regard him as something of a role model. She _couldn't_ be challenging Harry's right to the position?

"As Resident Seeker," Ginny seethed, "I don't think that's fair."

"Oh, look here, Ginny," Ron winced. "No offence- I mean, you were a really good Seeker, and everything... but Harry's always been-"

"Times change, Ron. You can't just give your best friend the position he likes, just because you're Captain, and push out the person who's there already." Ginny scowled.

"Oh, excuse me," Harry snapped, suddenly leaning back into the conversation. "Maybe Ron's just appointing the most experienced player? I played Seeker for three years- a year before you even came to Hogwarts, Ginny, and..."

"And the year before last there wasn't any Quidditch, and last year you didn't play much Quidditch," Ginny told him tartly. "After last year, we need to start this season with a bang, not retraining a rusty Seeker."

"Oh, you want to start with a bang, do you?" Harry's hands went down on the tabletop. His eyes were locked with Ginny's. Ron, sitting between them, looked like a rabbit caught in headlights. "Perhaps having me back on the team, playing where I belong, would be the best way to kick you lot into touch?"

"Are you suggesting you're a better Seeker than me?" Ginny stood up, bristling. The towel slipped from her hair, and a cascade of fiery red flowed over the shoulders of her dark robes.

"Frankly, yes." Harry stood up too, and folded his arms, his face dark and angry. "But if you want to waste the Captain's time with a trial, you're on. Call the position contested, and let Ron hold try-outs. Whoever's best at grabbing the Snitch, gets to play."

"Fine." Ginny grated.

They glared at each other for a full minute. Then, suddenly, Ron stood up.

"Both of you," he wrung his hands. "Sit down. This isn't... it's not like you."

Ginny rounded on him.

"Well, you're the one who started it, just blithely assuming that I'd..."

"All right, all right!" Ron held up his hands in surrender. "Maybe you could... alternate or something..."

It was a half measure, and Hermione, herself surprised by the sudden ferocity of the argument between her two friends, didn't expect it to work. More likely, such was the rage Ginny had worked herself into, it would trigger another outburst. She was almost stunned then, when Ginny nodded demurely, and sat down in her seat, her hands in her lap.

"You mean, I play Chaser, but if Harry's ill or unavailable, I work as Reserve Seeker and a Reserve Chaser replaces me?"

Ron breathed a huge sigh of relief. That was better than he'd hoped for.

"Yes. Thanks Ginny..." he sat down. "You're great, you know that, sis."

"That's all right, Ron," Ginny smiled, looking into her folded hands thoughtfully. "I promise faithfully that I won't try to grab Harry's golden balls unless he's feeling weak and helpless."

Ron nodded.

"Thanks again, Gin. That's just what..." he trailed off. "Wait a minute... wait a flaming minute..."

"Oh, YES!" Hermione turned to see Harry, at the other end of the table, gleefully punching the air, before walking round to firmly shake Ginny's hand. "Well played," he remarked casually, eyeing a purple and speechless Ron.

"Thank you," Ginny smirked. "You didn't do too badly holding up your end of the game."

"A SET-UP!" Ron spluttered. "A set-up! You... gits! You utter gits! You nearly gave me a heart attack!" He shook his head as Harry and Ginny dissolved into helpless laughter. Hermione joined them a moment later, unable to face Ron's priceless expression with a straight face, and laughing too with relief, for that odd, disconnected look on Harry's face seemed to have vanished as Ginny played her prank.

Ron moaned despairingly. "Merlin's drawers," he groaned, having difficulty not laughing himself, "It's not fair, I was just thinking at least I wouldn't have to put up with the twins' jokes this year, and now..."

"This year at Hogwarts, brother mine," Ginny intoned in a sepulchral tone she had clearly borrowed from one twin or the other at some time, "You shall learn that there are far worse things abroad in this world than Fred and George..."

"Amen," Harry chuckled.

Outside in the hall, the door opened.

"Arthur? Molly?" they heard the voice calling. Everyone looked at one another. There was a strange feeling in the air, like the night before Christmas. Even to Harry, whose feelings for the old man were now very mixed, something of the magic remained.

"It's Dumbledore," Ron whispered. Then another voice sounded, which seemed to scythe away the uplifted sensation in the most unpleasant manner possible.

"Confound it, Weasleys, get a move on," Severus Snape snapped. "Some of us have more important work to do for the Order than keeping a house warm and doing the washing up."

The teenagers looked at each other. Molly had gone up to the attic a while ago, on some errand or other, and Mr Weasley was still out at work.

"I suppose... one of us had better let the greasy git in," Ron sighed, pushing back his chair- only to stop in his tracks as, outside in the hall, seemingly reacting to Snape's voice where it had ignored Dumbledore, Mrs Black's familiar and unwelcome tone rose- in song.

"**Turn around, walk out the door,  
Just turn around now,  
'Cos you ain't welcome any more!  
I've got all my life to live,  
Got all my love to give,  
I will survive, I WILL SURVIVE!**"

The four adolescents looked at each other. Ginny had the grace to blush, very slightly.

"All right, all right," she murmured, "But you just wait to see how it greets Dad..."

* * *


	4. When The Fire Bell Sounds, Run Around Sc...

**Chapter Four:** "When the Fire Bell Sounds, Run Around Screaming."

"Thank you, Molly, that was quite the most wonderful Shepherd's Pie I have ever tasted- although I would take it as a kindness if you did not mention that to the head house-elf at Hogwarts," Dumbledore smiled, "Or, indeed, to Professor McGonagall. I'm afraid she has been placed on a slightly restricted diet- to help her recover after that unfortunate incident last year, and has decided that the entire faculty should also adopt a more healthy eating regimen, I'm sorry to say." He passed his plate to Harry, who passed it to Ginny, to Ron, to Snape, and so to the sink.

The meal had, indeed, been an excellent one, and once again Harry found himself amazed at how the Weasley family- not to mention Tonks, colourful in character as she was in hair, Alastor Moody, who was leaning warily against the old, black kitchen range, his arms folded and watching all possible threats keenly, and indeed Dumbledore himself, although he'd not as yet spoken to the elderly wizard beyond a polite, and rather strained greeting, could brighten up the gloomy kitchen of Grimmauld Place. That thought, he instantly felt guilty, for the slur on Sirius' home, and then reminded himself that Sirius had thoroughly hated the place as well.

And he spent the last year of his life penned up here.

Harry's lips whitened slightly. Another little tick in a box. Another line in the tally he was growing increasingly determined that he would live long enough to one day present to Voldemort, along with the business end of eleven-and-a-half inches of holly and phoenix quill, demanding payment.

An expectant hush had settled over the table, particularly so for its younger members. Finally, Snape coughed.

"Perhaps we should begin, Headmaster? I doubt Shacklebolt is liable to grace us with his presence, and charming as this demonstration of rustic cuisine may have been-" behind his head, Molly, examining burn marks on a large baking tray, was sorely tempted- "I would like to get to the matter at hand." There was, even more than usual, a certain air of bitterness about him. Natural enough, Harry and the others knew very well how much Snape had always craved the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.

Dumbledore nodded. "Very well, Severus. Now, Harry, I would like you and your group-" he indicated Ron and Hermione with one glance, and took in Ginny's fairly determined presence next to them with little surprise, "to stay with us for the time being-" Snape harrumphed crossly "-because the subject in question bears more than a little on yourselves, and is not, strictly speaking, the business of the Order. As you are all no doubt aware, I have once again been compelled to spend a certain amount of this summer holiday in the tiresome task of selecting a teacher for the- perhaps naturally- dogged by ill-fortune subject of Defence Against The Dark Arts. I have now, I believe, found a rather novel, and yet strangely appropriate choice." His eyes sparkled, and he looked again at the four adolescents in the group, a strange searching expression on his face. "Indeed, I fancy it may be appropriate in many ways."

"What's this got to do with us, Professor?" Arthur Weasley asked, politely. He looked around the shabby kitchen. "One of the main reasons we don't meet at Hogwarts- apart from the risk of being spotted, of course, was always that you wanted to keep the Order and the School apart."

"Indeed, Arthur." Dumbledore looked troubled. "I have always held that, while it is true that our struggle against Voldemort concerns everyone, it is not right that I should unduly endanger those who I hold just as deep a responsibility. However… it should be apparent to all that that separation is, perhaps, a luxury that we can no longer afford."

"Because of the boy." Snape pushed his chair back, until he was almost underneath the chimney, and folded his arms. "I hope, after last summer's debacle, Potter begins to appreciate that that much-vaunted Gryffindor courage is only a virtue so long as one takes the time to check that one is not needlessly dragging others into mortal peril in one's wake." He raised one eyebrow, and regarded Harry maliciously. Harry returned the look with equal animosity. There was a moment's pause. Then- somewhat testily- Dumbledore spoke again.

"Because of many reasons, Severus, of whom _Mr_ Potter is one. The Ministry of Magic is another. Any teacher in the school makes a potential spy, Severus- as surely you must appreciate," he added, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, which made Snape's face bleaker than ever, "… either for Lord Voldemort himself, of for unsympathetic agencies within the Ministry- as we discovered last year, to our cost."

Arthur nodded.

"The enquiry's about closed on that one, Dumbledore, as you know. I'm afraid Dolores Umbridge is still working at the Ministry-" resigned sighs and snorts of disgust sounded around the table at that remark, and Mad-Eye Moody's magical eye twitched venomously in its socket, "- but it's unlikely she'll hold much power again. Fudge is an idiot, but he has a shrewd enough idea of how to avoid being unpopular in the short term." Mr Weasley shook his head in revulsion.

Dumbledore nodded.

"Precisely. We do not have to fear much from the Ministry apart from an occasional bureaucratic delay at present, but as time passes, and the shock of July's revelation begins to fade, the danger of revenge in some form may become increasingly apparent. However, I fear that the main threat is, and will, remain unchanged, and therefore, since it does affect the security of this Order, I have considered it wise to discuss this selection of a new teacher with you- particularly regarding my own lamentable past failings in this particular area," he had the grace to sound self-chiding.

"No problem." Moody shrugged. "Invite him down here for a chat, we'll have a look at him, then if we don't like him, wipe his memory, or chuck him in the river." Tonks rolled her eyes.

"Hardly politic, Alastor, or indeed possible." Professor Dumbledore smiled fondly. "The man I have chosen is not a particularly powerful wizard in the terms that most of you would judge… but I assure you, your chances of successfully implementing a memory charm on him against his will are almost non-existent."

There it was. Harry and the others looked at each other. Around the table, the adults did the same. Finally, Remus Lupin spoke.

"So, who is it? You told me the other day that I knew him?"

"Only slightly, I believe, Remus. You were at Hogwarts together, though. The wizard in question is one Aloysius Milner, currently of the Thaumaturgical Research and Mousetrap Department, Cambridge."

Remus frowned, looking momentarily extremely vulpine, and scratched his cheek.

"Doesn't ring a bell, Dumbledore… oh, wait a minute," he looked up. "Aloysius? Fat little Ravenclaw kid? He was a couple of years behind us when we were doing our NEWTS… wasn't he expelled or something? Some scandal?"

"Suspended, not expelled, Remus." Dumbledore chuckled. Harry noticed Snape's face growing ever more disapproving. Evidently this Aloysius was, like Remus, another choice of which the Potions' Master didn't approve. He decided on the spot that he probably would rather like Aloysius Milner. "And I hardly think a former Marauder has much business berating a fellow ex-pupil for causing scandal," he added, regarding the werewolf quizzically. Lupin had the grace to look somewhat abashed. "Milner is… an unusual wizard," Dumbledore told them, and then turned to Harry and the others. "… and I am myself not entirely certain of him. I am sure however, that he has no connection to Voldemort. He loathes the Dark Arts, and has a particular disgust for their current master. He may, however, prove to be dangerous or unreliable in other ways… and so, Miss Granger, Mr and Ms Weasley, and Mr Potter… I would like to, be frank, to ask for your help. On more than one occasion, it has been my erroneous faith in a Professor which would have doomed us all, but for your insight and guidance. On other occasions, of course," he added, smiling cheerfully at Snape, "you have been proven to be utterly wrong in your suspicions, but none the less, I would like to ask you to study Professor Milner- as he will be when you return to school- and advise me as to what you make of him? Will you do this for me?"

They looked at each other. Ron and Hermione's first instinct- for different reasons, of course- would have been to agree instantly to Dumbledore's strange request. Ginny, rather over-awed at being spoken to so humbly by the old man, clearly wanted to wait on the others' decision, and they, having heard Harry's tale, looked to him for guidance.

Harry looked up at Dumbledore, saw the many expressions in the old man's face, and tried to understand them. Slowly, he nodded.

"Yes, Professor," he said. "I might ask for something in return in a moment," Dumbledore seemed to nod, almost as if expecting it, "but I'll do it."

"The same for us, Professor," Hermione confirmed.

"Thank you, Miss Granger, Harry." Professor Dumbledore smiled. Then he sat back in his chair, and looked around. "Now… to business. There have been, as you know, three more attacks in the South East in the last few days. Fortunately, in the last of them, we were able to be of assistance…"

"Aye," Moody chuckled. "I'd like to see that bastard McNair walking again this side of Christmas." Remus flashed his teeth, and even Arthur Weasley smiled somewhat. Dumbledore held up a restraining hand.

"However, we must expect that new attacks will be forthcoming, and…"

"Just a minute, Headmaster," Snape interrupted in a lazy way, turning to regard Harry with a baleful expression. "You're not proposing to carry on this meeting with these children still present, I hope. Go to bed, Potter."

Dumbledore's eyes did not lose their cheerful twinkle, but Harry had the distinct feeling that frost had just begun to accumulate somewhere in the aged headmaster's beard.

"That is precisely what I am proposing, Severus- and kindly do not interrupt me again. Mr Potter has already communicated his feelings in this regard to Molly, and I feel-" he paused, looking slightly uncomfortable, "- I have an obligation to honour his wishes in this regard."

In other words, Harry found himself reflecting with wry amusement, You owe me.

"As for his friends... I would take it on trust that anything we said to Mr Potter in person would be repeated to them in his room five minutes or less after this meeting had closed. Indeed, from what I remember of boyhood friendships, I would be heartily disappointed if this were not the case. Therefore it seems to me eminently practical that Ronald, Virginia, and Hermione remain here as well. Is that not the case, Harry?"

"Thank you, Professor." Once again, Harry locked eyes with Dumbledore, and was surprised by the level of gratitude he was in that aged face for those simple three words- and also surprised by how glad he felt of that gratitude and friendship.

"Thank you, Harry." Dumbledore seemed to draw himself up. Molly and Arthur were still looking a little unhappy at Ron and Ginny's involvement in the meeting, but appeared to agree with the inevitability of what Dumbledore had remarked upon. "It is not, Severus, as if this first meeting of the week is particularly crucial. Indeed, you yourself questioned its placing as the business of the Order, but... especially in the light of certain... errors of judgement I may have made in the past, and the knowledge that causing so… unusual a wizard to be brought into the school may, in fact, jeopardise the secrecy of the Order, I feel that..."

"But the Order doesn't operate within the school," Snape protested. "What do you think Milner's going to do?"

"That, Professor," Dumbledore resumed, with more than a flicker of irritation, "…will change. There are, in case you had forgotten, four new fully-fledged members of the Phoenix Order at Hogwarts this year, and they will be-" Harry started momentarily. Four new members of the Order? What was happening- and then, looking at his three friends, he realised, and felt a sudden rush of pride.

"Four? These brats?" Snape's eyes flashed. "Have you lost your reason? I understand you want to repay your debt to Potter, but the child's a liability! I cannot say I cared for the man, but Black's death is..."

"Shut your mouth, Snape." Harry snapped, getting to his feet. Snape recoiled, then rounded on him, his eyes glinting maliciously.

"Thirty points from Gryffindor, Potter, and you will call me 'Professor' of 'Sir' at all times, unless you wish to spend the entirety of the next term in detention."

Harry looked at him, saw the familiar gloating look on the Potions' Master's face, and felt the equally familiar momentary urge to ram his wand up Snape's nose. Then, even as he was trying to calm himself, to stop himself doing something massively unwise, he felt it. Subtle, not like the attacks of last year's disastrous training, but there, none the less. Angry, Professor Snape might be, but he was also deliberately trying to stir Harry's emotions- to open the door to his mind. Harry forced himself to be calm, and very slowly, very carefully, got to his feet. With a humble and pious expression on his face, which seemed to be perplexing Snape mightily, he bowed his head.

"I'm sorry, Sir, for not speaking to you properly. Now," he fought to control the smile that threatened to appear on his lips, and looked up sincerely at Snape. "Shut your mouth, you greasy little toad."

"Harry..." he heard Arthur Weasley say, in a restraining tone, somewhere behind him. Snape's mouth opened, then closed. No sound emerged. Before he could recover himself, Harry pressed his advantage., both verbally and inside Snape's mind.

"This isn't school. You can't deduct housepoints, and you can't award detentions. Not outside termtime, unless we're on board the Hogwarts' Express. School rules. I read them in Hogwarts: A History." He flashed Hermione a grin. "Not only that, but this happens to be my house. Sirius left it to me- in Remus' trust till I turn eighteen. So, frankly, I'll call you anything I like, you bastard son of a lizard."

Snape turned purple, and thundered,

"You will treat me with the respect I..."

"Deserve? With pleasure, you filthy, lying, repulsive, biased, vindictive little creep." Harry was really enjoying himself now. "I'll tell you something, Snape. You mean nothing! Your little betrayal, your years of self-sacrifice enduring who knows what in Voldemort's court, all to ferret little bits of information back to the Order... none of it means a thing. You've heard the prophecy. I can't say I like it, but I can't change it either. At the end of the day, it's going to be me, and him. You can't change it any more than I can. None of you can," he looked around at the group. "Not even Professor Dumbledore... so, really, unless this Order works with me, it's not going to achieve very much in the end, is it?"

Tonks shook her head slightly. Everyone else watched Harry, motionless, their faces difficult to read. He was aware that he was not coming off as well as he would have liked. I don't want this! He wanted to say, I don't need this, I don't want to sound like I'm revelling in this...

He tried to explain.

"I can't afford to have two different groups keeping each other in the dark. All right, a lot of what happened to Sirius was my fault. But I wouldn't have made that mistake if we weren't fencing round each other the whole time. Like it or not, I'm involved. I don't have the choice of staying out of this. If the Order won't work with me… then we'll get in each other's way. We've got to… work together. We can't afford…"

"You can't afford!" Snape roared- and Harry was furious to feel those thin tendrils of thought prying their way into his mind once more, trying to take advantage of his distraction. "Just who do you imagine you are, Potter? How do you plan to defeat the Dark Lord? Well? How?" He waited. "No answer? What a surprise. You say that it was being kept in the dark that caused harm? What about the harm you caused by being involved, Potter? What about Black? Who will you have betrayed next, because you "have to be involved?" Me, perhaps?" He sneered. "I'm by no means ignorant as to the regard you have for me, Potter. How difficult would it be for the Dark Lord to pick my secrets out of your mind? How difficult?"

Harry understood. Understood why Snape was doing what he was doing.

He's petrified. The slimy git thinks I'm worthless, can't stand up to Voldemort- and he's right there, because… no, no, later. That was before. He thinks I'll bring them all down. Well, time to prove him wrong.

"Potter has no talent for Occlumency. The brat's mind will be an open book, Headmaster," Snape snarled. "The consequ--"

He never finished the sentence. Harry, without warning, had drawn his wand, and levelled it straight at the unpleasant Master.

"Occlumens." Snape fell back on the hearth, writhing in agony, his muscles twitching, limbs moving in wild and spasmodic jerks as Harry kept the wand on him, his eyes gleaming with triumph.

"Whoa! Yes!" Ron whooped.

"Harry! What are you doing to him?" Hermione gasped.

"What's the matter, Snape?" Harry stalked round the table, keeping his eyes fixed on the whimpering Professor. "Get a bit over-confident, did you? Think that because Potter's such a useless Occlumens, you didn't need to guard yourself properly? Is that it? _Wrong, _Professor Snape, sir. Dead wrong."

"Harry…" Dumbledore's voice cut across the stunned room. Everyone, from Mad-Eye Moody to Tonks was frozen, their eyes fixed on the stricken Potions Master. Harry stood over him, his eyes intent.

"Let that be your first lesson in too long, Severus," he snapped. "Never, ever, _ever_ put too much of yourself into another's mind."

"What are you _doing _to him?"

"Stop it, Harry!"

"In a moment, Hermione. To answer your question, Mr Weasley… imagine a snake comes slithering in through your kitchen door. Imagine you notice, and slam the door shut. The snake turns, tries to escape… but gets the very tip of its tail caught in the trap. Snap." Harry jabbed his wand at Snape.

"P… Potter…" Snape's eyes flicked open, bloodshot and unfocussed. Gritting his teeth, he tried to speak. "P… Pott… Potter…. Stop it…. Stop it…"

"Say 'please', sir." Harry chided.

Snape's face grew harsh, even through the pain.

"Ne… never…. Nev…"

"Neville Longbottom? Yes, he is better at Potions than you are at Legilmency… and I'm glad you realise it, Snape." The Professor's head was drumming on the flagstones of the kitchen floor now, his whole body twitching. Harry knelt over him, his wand levelled between Snape's eyes. "I've had enough of you, Severus. Enough snide remarks, enough spite against my father… enough!" The rage was growing ever stronger in him now, like a rising spring tide. Snape had caused their feud, all those years ago- and last summer, at least in part because that feud had ignited so disastrously during the Occlumency classes, Sirius had died. Harry's eyes blazed.

All Slytherin. Tom Riddle, Draco Malfoy, Severus Snape. All of you and your damned quest for power.

_"_You want to be the most unpopular teacher in school, fine, that's your affair. I'll take Advanced Potions because I need to, and rest assured if you step one foot... One toe out of line with me this year, I'll be in contact with the school board straight away. Once that happens, I'm sure Voldemort will eventually learn exactly why Professor Dumbledore keeps you on the staff. Still, while you're teaching me, you go on being as repulsive as ever, that's your job, right?" Harry smiled. "But, outside of class, when it's Order business, we're equals. Is that clear?" He paused. Snape moaned. "I can't hear you, Professor…" Harry's eyes blazed… and suddenly, another voice rang out.

"Finite incantatem." Dumbledore had only spoken the words, not shouted them, yet somehow they resounded throughout the room, flinging Harry away from Snape, who moaned with relief, and slowly, painfully, pulled himself into a sitting position. Harry, once he'd regained his balance, looked up at the Headmaster- and for the first time in his life found himself on the receiving end of Dumbledore's wrath.

It was gentle. Gentle like the cut of a fine knife. Quiet, deep, and agonising.

"I had expected better of you, Harry." The Headmaster bowed his head- and Harry felt compelled to do the same. "You ask to join the Order of the Phoenix… and yet you attack Professor Snape in this fashion? Why?"

"He broke into my mind!" Harry blurted. His cheeks were flaming red with guilt and embarrassment. What had made him go so far, in front of so many other people. He risked a glance around the room. Even Fred and George seemed… distant, perturbed by the ecstatic hatred he'd shown the Slytherin teacher. Arthur and Molly looked horrified. Only Remus Lupin appeared to be grinning. "He just treated my mind like… like an old bag he could rummage in and…"

"And that is indeed just cause to eject him from your mind, Harry," Dumbledore continued, his tone level, not harsh, but clinical. "But this…? This was more than protection, Harry. If, as you say, the Order must be united, then there is no place for such personal vengeance."

"I…" Harry shivered. "I'm sorry… Headmaster. I didn't… I don't know why I did that."

"I do, Harry," he heard Dumbledore's tone lighten. "If you understood it, and still did as you did, then I would be considerably more harsh with you." He dared to meet the Professor's eyes again, and found them kind- though still both angry and disappointed. "Do not try to deny that you can feel something as base as hatred, Harry. We all feel these things… and only by accepting their place in your heart can you control them. And I think it is to Professor Snape that you owe the apology."

Harry swallowed, and looked down at the fallen Professor. Snape had dragged himself into a sitting position on the floor, and was wiping a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. His dark, haunted eyes regarded Harry with more than their usual loathing, and also… something very like… fear? Harry fought down the instinctive glee he felt at that. _No._ He shivered again. Snape was his ally. Never a friend, but on the same side. He held out a hand to Snape, who waved it away and got to his feet, never taking his eyes from Potter.

"I'm… I'm…" Harry paused a moment, and looked round at his friends. Ron was still wearing a shade of the grin he'd had at the sight of Snape's discomfiture, but now somewhat subdued both by Harry's current predicament and the feeling that, somehow, his friend had gone too far. Hermione, in contrast, had unconsciously grasped Ron's arm with one hand, and was looking fixedly at Harry with something like horrified amazement on her face. Ginny had slid her chair back slightly, but looked slightly puzzled more than anything else. She had her head tilted sideways, as if listening, or thinking about something in a new way. Harry ticked another box internally. _A new way. _"I'm sorry, Severus," Harry told Snape then, his tone less hesitant than before. "I overstepped the line. I don't think it would be shattering anyone's illusions to admit that we've always got on like fire and ice as teacher and student… but if you can try to keep that separate from us working together in the Order, then I'll try too." He looked into Snape's eyes.

"Try, Potter?" Snape snapped. Harry heard Tonks sigh in despair. "I think that little display of yours has quite convinced anyone that you're totally incapable of…"

"Silencio!" Albus Dumbledore rapped out the spell, and Snape found himself voiceless. The Headmaster stood up, and leant forward over the table. "That is quite enough, Severus. Quite enough for a long while." Dumbledore's voice was quiet still, but all the mirth had gone from his eyes. "I was right to rebuke Harry for his actions… but Harry is a teenager, Severus, and I do not think he will take offence at my reminding you that his life has by no means been easy. I do not ask you to give him special treatment in class- that would be inappropriate, although by no means more inappropriate than the personal animosity in which you have so obviously engaged for the last five years." Professor Dumbledore snarled. "If Harry's attitude towards you has deteriorated to the uncivil levels we have just witnessed, then we have also witnessed the reason for that change. I told Harry that he owed you an apology. He has had the grace to give that apology. I will now expect the same from you." With a flourish, he lifted the charm. Snape massaged his throat, and glared at Dumbledore and Harry in equal measure. Harry felt himself blushing. Everyone's eyes were fixed on the two of them. He didn't know what would horrify him more- Snape attacking, or worse, Snape apologising. He writhed silently, and caught Dumbledore's knowing eye. Somehow, he could gauge the Headmaster's expression rather well on this occasion, and knew that this, rather than his apology, was Harry's lesson and punishment. If you wish to make others abase themselves and beg forgiveness from you, then you deserve nothing less than that they should do so in front of others who had thought better of you. He met Snape's eyes, and saw the undimmed hatred in them.

"Very well." Professor Snape clipped out the words. "I'm sorry, Potter. I will not probe your mind without permission or warning again."

Harry nodded, and, somewhat unsteadily, made his way back to his seat, taking in the mixed looks of fear- that he should be able to call upon so much power, criticism- that he should use it in this way, and amazement- that Snape might ever apologise to the Boy Who Lived, in the faces of all those he most wanted to think of him as a friend and equal. He caught Dumbledore's eye as he sat, and saw the question in it.

No,

he answered silently, shaking his head,

_you're right, I don't want to be like that. I'd rather people hate me than fear me._

* * *

The meeting was over. Harry and his friends had said very little after the incident with Snape, Harry content to listen, to fade into the background a little, while his friends sat near him, watching him with questions in their eyes. Harry hadn't been, and still wasn't, in a mood to answer them, so when the Order members had departed, and Molly had ushered Hermione and her children off to bed- despite his comments of the afternoon, Mrs Weasley still clearly included him in that bracket, he had stayed behind, pleading the need for a word with Tonks. He'd had it- and, although she was clearly surprised by the alacrity with which he had smoothly and calmly suggested his idea to her without any hint of the troubled rage he'd displayed earlier, she'd agreed to help.

Harry leant back against the cool plaster wall at the bottom of the back stairs and closed his eyes. He couldn't think of a worse way to have begun his association with the Order. What on Earth had possessed him to go for Snape like that? Voldemort? It was a theory he'd formed, from time to time, since these odd little moments of out-of-character behaviour had started cropping up more and more. A blood-chilling theory. He didn't believe that the Dark Lord was consciously controlling his mind- no, if he were, then the consequences would have been far worse before now, if Harry had so drastically overestimated his progress in Occlumency to that extent, that Voldemort could still possess him without his even realising it… then between them they would have laid the entire wizarding world waste by now. Yet.. If the link existed between them, as he knew it must, then perhaps more than memories and visions could move along it. The thought that Voldemort's attitudes, his ideas, his… hatred of life could somehow seep into Harry's mind revolted him, and that revulsion seemed to reawaken his heart.

"No," he murmured quietly to himself. "No… it's just stress and hormones. Don't be an idiot, Potter. If you start getting neurotic about _being _neurotic, then you're really finished."

"Fair enough." He looked up. Ginny was watching him, puzzled, from a few steps up. "Although talking to yourself…"

"All right, I know, Gin." Harry shook his head to clear away the cobwebs. "Sorry about this evening."

"Harry, you've already said that. About six million times, in the half-decade we've known you." she laughed. "Just in case you haven't noticed, you were surrounded by Weasleys. Maybe you've got a nasty one, but believe me, we _know_ bad temper."

Harry smiled for the first time since the incident, and pushed off from the wall.

"I didn't mean…" he shrugged. "I didn't want to humble him, Ginny," he put one hand on the bannister and looked up at her. "I admit I wanted to hurt him… maybe even kill him, I… I don't know." He hung his head. "But not to have him humble himself in front of me like that. I'm not Voldemort, Gin. I don't need worshippers. That was what Dumbledore had to get through to me, maybe."

"Pity," Ginny grinned slyly at him. "So all that work Colin and I put in on the Harry Potter fan club was wasted, then?" She retreated back a few steps, forcing Harry to keep pace. "We could have had twenty foot high portraits of you on the castle walls, dozens of soft-eyed priestesses eager to wait upon your every whim, dedicated dancing girls clad in the sheerest silk all giving their love to the Great Harry," she reached the first turning of the stairs. "All sorts, and all spoiled because you don't want a cult. I'm so disappointed, Harry."

"Ginny Weasley," Harry narrowed his eyes, "If you ever ask to put on sheer silk robes and dance for me, then I'll probably nod my head so fast that my glasses will fall off. On the other hand, the revelation that Colin Creevey was part of the same Harry Potter Fan Club that you were will, you realise, force me to enter into a life of perpetual celibacy in order to cleanse my mind of the horrible images you've just created, so that's a paradox."

"Why, Harry, I'm sure Colin and I could have shared," Ginny tried to keep up the rally, although her face was rapidly turning scarlet. "Although we might have had to draw the line if you started any funny business with Draco." At that parting shot, she fled up to the top of the flight of stairs. Harry spluttered, and sought in vain for a retort. Finally, he settled for climbing up to the first floor to join her.

"In case you'd forgotten," he muttered wryly, "It's Voldemort who's supposed to give me the nightmares."

"I thought we were supposed to be calling him 'Little Tommy'," she retorted. "And I've had quite enough of those myself, thanks."

"Sorry, Ginny, I didn't mean to bring that back." He sighed. Ginny, to Harry's surprise, snorted.

"Remember what you said earlier about fearing him? It's the same thing getting depressed about him, Harry Potter. I was joking, and I expect you to do the same. No seriousness allowed without prior appointment. Anyway," she snorted. "Frankly, if Voldemort tries to put terrifying images in my head tonight, they'll have to compete with what I just saw in your room a couple of minutes ago." Harry noticed then how quietly she was picking her way along the corridor. He lowered the volume of his own voice.

"What were you doing in there?"

"Talking to Ron and Hermione," she told him, and shuddered. "Then… it was horrible, Harry. As if someone had hit them with a sticking curse."

"Eh? What? Pardon?" Harry blinked at her, dumbfounded. "Did someone attack…"

"No, you idiot," she sighed. "Not a bit slow on the uptake tonight, are we? I suppose that's what being up all night with Tonks will do for you. I mean, kissing."

"What is it with Weasleys and implying things about me and Tonks today? We were just…" Harry's mind backtracked. They were now practically on tiptoes, creeping towards the door of the room Ron and Harry shared. "Whoa… hold on a minute… kissing?"

"With tongue," Ginny shuddered in distaste. "And they were sitting on your bed. If anything will persuade you to want to sleep in my bed instead sometime, it would be that."

Harry missed the last joke entirely. His mind had, for the moment, abandoned all concept of progress, and was simply buzzing around one idea like a fly around a lamp.

"Kissing? Ron? Hermione? Kissing?" He gaped. "As in, mouths?"

"Yes, Harry," Ginny put her hands on her hips. "Think 'Room of Requirements; Cho Chang; Mistletoe, or think me; Michael Idiot Corner; Charms Classroom; once; total letdown. K, I, S, S, I, N, G. I'm sure you're capable of understanding the concept."

"Ron and Hermione?"

"No, McGonagall and Umbridge."

"Kissing?" Harry almost squeaked. Then he swallowed. "Sorry, Harry's brain is temporarily unavailable. Normal service will be resumed as soon as… ah." He smiled. "Well, it's about time."

"Shh," she crept up to the door. "I _so_ don't want to walk in on them again."

Harry listened. He could hear the sound of voices in the room- Ron, sounding perplexed, as usual, and Hermione, worrying about something. Ginny nodded, and produced her wand. Quickly, she cast something that looked like a mixture of the Silencing Charm, and a version of the Amplification Charm he'd used on the Dursleys last night. Somewhat tinnily, as if heard through headphones, Hermione and Ron's voices became clearly audible. Harry was about to tease Ginny for eavesdropping, when the nature of the conversation became clear to him.

"… just so fast, Hermione."

That was Ron, no doubt about to put his foot in it.

"I… all right, it's not news to me that you're more than just a friend to me- I mean, I like you. I mean, I like you in ways I don't like Harry. I mean…"

"Ron, shut up. I'm trying to talk about Harry."

"Oh. Right."

Ron sounded offended now.

"What happened this evening?"

"Harry went off the deep end. Come off it, we saw it all the time last year. I'm just glad it wasn't one of us he went for this time. He's always been…"

"What, Ron? Mercurial? No, he hasn't."

Harry wondered if Ron knew what mercurial actually meant. He also wondered if he was himself entirely sure, but he was becoming distracted, not to say alarmed, not to say increasingly furious, by and at Hermione's reasoning.

"Bad temper, yes, all right, but last year was a bit exceptional. Even so, he was withdrawn, moody, gloomy, and cross."

"And those were just his good qualities. C'mon, Mi, he'll snap out of it."

"But will he?"

He could hear her pacing across the floor now. Harry grit his teeth. This was just what he'd expected… but on top of that, it was asking all sorts of questions he'd been trying to avoid asking himself.

"I was watching him this afternoon, Ron. He'd get all full of excitement, worked up like… like he was back when we were children- I mean, young children… and then it would just drain off. One minute he'd be full of beans, or pretending he was, at any rate,"

Harry looked wildly at Ginny, who was regarding him questioningly,

"… and the next he'd just, well, slump. I think Harry's depressed."

"Well, of course! Sirius is dead, You-Know-Who's back,"

Hermione interrupted Ron.

"No, Ron, I mean… well, clinically depressed. Manic depressive, maybe. He's going through wild mood swings, he's obviously paranoid… I think there's something really wrong with him. You saw how he was with Snape. If Professor Dumbledore hadn't intervened… I think…"

"Yeah, it was too far, but Snape deserved it, he…"

"Deserved to be killed?"

Ron made a startled sound. The blood hammered in Harry's skull.

"It wouldn't…"

"Wouldn't it? Ron, Harry had lost control. He didn't like it afterwards- as soon as someone broke the wave he was riding on he was disgusted with himself, anyone could see that… but, at the time, I believe he could have killed Professor Snape. I'm not entirely sure we can trust him."

Harry pulled away from the door with a start, and grabbed Ginny by the upper arms, holding her close. For a moment, he saw himself bursting through the door, confronting them. Call themselves friends? He wouldn't have anything more to do with them, he'd… his mind changed tack, remembering Privet Drive. He remembered facing Dudley, remembered his annoyance that he was finally about to tell his uncle exactly what he thought of him… and this fat oaf was in the way… he remembered threatening the boy- the Muggle- with the Killing Curse. Avada Kedavra. Then he remembered Bellatrix Lestrange and the Department of Mysteries. Cruciatus. Tears started in his eyes. Through a contorted face, he whispered,

"Not… a word…" Then, his breath hitching in his throat, he ran, leaving a horrified Ginny in his wake.


	5. Avada Kedavra

****

Chapter Five: Avada Kedavra

The upper landings of Grimmauld Place were dank, dark and infested with ancient malice and magic that little over a year's occupation by the Order had in no measure wholly eradicated. Harry stumbled along, sobbing as he did so. He slashed his wand at portraits which demanded to know his name, and what he thought he was doing in the noble House of Black, cursed them, closed his eyes and ran, ran until he turned a corner into the darkest place on Earth, and a tall, black figure with a pale face turned its flat-nosed, slit-eyed face towards him, and Harry shrieked at the pain which burned in his scar.

"Potter…! How opportune." Voldemort seemed to float across the floor, dark robes billowing about him. Harry stumbled, falling to his knees, his wand rolling out of his hand. "As always, you are predictable. Weak, frightened, foolish…" He laughed, high and cold. "Raised by Muggles, no better than a Mudblood yourself, and you will die a Muggle, without a wand to defend yourself." Voldemort raised his own wand, and his red eyes glinted with sadistic glee.

Harry closed his eyes, rocking back on his knees. If only he hadn't dropped his wand… if only… and there it was, moving back to him, drifting back through the air, but the Dark Lord had begun to speak his final curse, and there was no time… no time except for…

"Avada Kedavra!" Harry shouted, the moment the wand touched his fingertips, and the curse sped away, striking Voldemort's own Killing Curse and shattering it with the power the prophecy had promised, the power he never knew he had… and the Avada had torn into Voldemort, tearing his chest apart… and still it flashed on, a jagged tear of green light in the air itself, and behind Voldemort, Lucius Malfoy screamed in agony as he fell dead beside the corpse of his master. No great loss, Harry reflected, gleefully. Two birds with one stone… and behind the two Death Eaters stood Draco Malfoy, his sneering face as arrogant as ever, and the curse would kill him too, for still it clove the air, and a future evil would die with two present ones, and Harry was flying on with the curse now, and he saw as it struck Draco's chest that the glint in Draco's eyes was not pride but terror, and that he was nothing but a sixteen year-old child, but the curse had already killed him and it flashed on, slaying Severus Snape as he stood behind Malfoy, and then Professor Dumbledore, and McGonagall, and Hermione and Ron, as they rushed to the Professors' aid and did not see the unstoppable power that Harry had set loose… and still the Unforgivable Curse tore through the air, and Ginny Weasley fell before it, her dead eyes forever frozen in a look of trust suddenly shattered, and of the innocent question 'why', as he stilled her heart, and even now the Avada would not abate, and it seemed to Harry that it would circle the world until none remained, but now a tiny house grew ever larger, and a worm pointed the way, and a tall man stood in the doorway to defy him, and he fell, and Harry entered the dwelling as a flash of green light, and he saw the baby before him, the baby to whose soul the curse was drawn… but the mother cried out, through herself on him, and he passed through her, but as she fell back her love fell upon the baby, and the Harry-Avada knew fear, for as he smote the child it screamed, but did not fall still, and his light tore open a great jagged wound on its head, and from that wound poured not blood but brilliant white light, light which smothered the green flash of the curse, and the Avada Kedavra was spent, and Harry screamed.

* * *

"I don't want to die!" He sat up in the dark, shaking, his clothes sodden with sweat. "No… I don't want to kill them… I don't want to kill me… them… I don't want to kill!" Harry clawed his way back up the bed, until he sat on the pillow, and flailed in the dark for his bedside table. It wasn't there. He had lost his wand, and Voldemort had become him and was coming and no one would be able to stop him and if he began… "No!" Harry reached out again- and his hand encountered nothing until it came down upon the bed sheets. Why was he in a double bed? He cudgelled his brain. Sirius… of course, he'd fled to Sirius' room, thinking no one would follow him there, no one would disturb him if he was with Sirius… except Sirius wasn't there… but if he was remembering Sirius… he had to think fast, Voldemort was coming. Harry needed his wand for light, but he had put his wand down before curling up on the bed in his misery and now it was darker and he couldn't find it in the strange room and…

He forced himself to keep quiet and still. His eyes would adjust. He only needed to see a little to see his wand. Harry waited.

This was worse. Sitting in the dark, listening, and waiting for things to appear. He shuddered. No. Nothing. He thought he could make out the foot of the bed, now. He thought he remembered leaving his wand on a small bureau, just to the left of the huge, gloomy old bed. Nodding, and trying to calm his breathing, Harry looked to the left.

"Well, well… the nasty little murdering Muggle-lover can think, can it?" The face which looked into his own contorted in an evil grin. Harry threw himself back to the right- and promptly fell out of the bed. The thing in the dark gave a nasty laugh, and he heard a scuttling sound.

"He cut us and burned us, the dog-man did," the voice gurgled. "And put out one of our eyes, and cut off our fingers with the carving knife, and put us in the chimney to die, to die!" The laugh came again. Harry froze. Where was it coming from? The thing had moved, but where to? He shook his head, and tried backing away. If only he could get a wall behind him… then that ruin of a face he'd seen leering at him in the darkness, one eye wild and crazed, the other just a ragged, dark slit, the nose hacked and torn, the cheeks slashed, the terrible half-melted skin, could at least only come at him from the front. "All because that filthy disgrace to my mistress' name was killed. Good he's gone, isn't it? It is. We think so, we do we do we… _do._"

"Kr… Kreacher?" Harry gasped, suddenly understanding. Remus never said what he'd done to the house-elf after it had betrayed Sirius to his death… but 'the dog-man' sounded very like one of Kreacher's nicknames for Lupin, to Harry.

"Yes…" Kreacher breathed softly, somewhere to Harry's right now. "The Muggle-lover has got it right, hasn't he, mistress?" Then came another sound, one that chilled Harry's blood as he sat somewhere lost in the room, disorientated and wandless. A knife, being sharpened on a stone. "The were-dog thought he'd killed us, but we crept away through passages in the chimney where we used to clean away the soot long years ago, didn't we? And we were burned and scalded but we stayed living, didn't we…"

"Why?" Harry spoke, trying to get his feet under him, trying to force knees that were like jelly to support him. "Why don't you just die! Sirius died because of you…"

"I am Kreacher, the House-Elf of the noble House of Black," Kreacher purred, in an odd, proud little voice- and Harry had a momentary image of him, decades, perhaps centuries ago, learning that phrase when he was young, so proud to serve his family. "I keep the House of Black clean. I will keep it clean, keep it as the mistress would like it. Clean!" Harry was swaying to his feet when the thing hit him in the chest, spidery limbs wrapping round his body. Down he fell, and cold metal bit into his arm as he dropped. Harry knew then he was fighting for his life. He lashed out, beating at the thing on his chest until it rolled away, gouging into his left arm again as it fell. Harry kicked out, but missed, and he sprang up on to the bed, feeling the blade cut through his trouser leg but miss his flesh as he jumped. He threw himself across the bed, praying to find the bureau- and Kreacher landed in the small of his back, with a squeak of triumph.

Harry rolled, pulling the ancient, mould-ridden blankets up with him, and pinning Kreacher under him, pressing down with the blankets on what he thought was the House-Elf's face. The Elf struggled violently, and the blade bit suddenly up through the blankets, slicing a deep nick in the side of Harry's hand. He screamed in pain, and Kreacher forced himself up and back, as Harry rolled away- and nearly stunned himself by striking the back of his head against the wooden bureau. It rocked, and as Harry slid uncontrollably back out of the bed, head first and on his back, something rolled off the top of it and bounced off his face. His wand.

There were shouts now in the rest of the house, and Harry could- distantly- hear running feet. He felt behind himself on the floor. He was pinned, his legs still half in the bed and tangled in the blankets he'd tried to use to smother Kreacher- did the thing even breathe?- while he supported the weight of his upper body on his elbows against the floorboards. Then he saw the tattered shape of the House-Elf's ruined face appear over the edge of the bed, felt its long-toed feet grip and hold his legs, as one thin hand held the knife high. His fingers found his wand.

At that moment, the door flew open.

"Lumos!" Ron Weasley appeared in the doorway behind Kreacher in a sudden burst of light, his wand aloft, but Kreacher would let nothing distract him from his prey, and now seized the knife in both hands… and Harry had already begun the Curse, knowing that Arthur stood directly behind the pitiful Elf, knowing that it would be the same all over again.

"Avada Kedavra!" he heard himself say, in a dream, and the green light surged from his wand, and he saw Ron's look of incredulity… and the curse struck the House Elf, and dissipated away to nothing. Kreacher looked down at his chest, and gurgled in his throat.

"Fools, fools to let Muggle-born scum think they are wizards. House-elves are magic, not flesh like wizards and Muggles, not to die because you say 'kill' because we don't live like that we are…"

"Harry, you can't kill him," Ron managed. "Not with magic, he's magic, and…"

Kreacher raised the knife again, and sprang, the blade aimed straight between Harry's eyes.

"FINITE INCANTATEM!" Harry bellowed, slashing at Kreacher with his wand, like a swordsman. Kreacher had begun to laugh… but then the laugh was hollow, and then Harry could see Ron _through_ Kreacher… and then the House Elf was gone, and the knife clattered harmlessly to the floor beside his head.

There was a long silence. Finally, as had been the case with many ornamental things, Ron broke it.

"That's impossible," he croaked, as he walked slowly over to the bed, and offered Harry a hand. The dark-haired boy took it, and sat on the side of the bed, trying to clear his scattered wits. Ron, after a minute, repeated himself. "That can't be done." He shook his head. "Sorry for sounding like Hermione… but you can't just… _dispell_ a House-Elf. They're something… well, I don't get it, but they're somewhere between a living thing and a spell. The Finite shouldn't work… and neither…" he looked at Harry strangely, "Neither would… that… spell."

"The Killing Curse, Ron." Harry whispered. "You heard what I cast at Kreacher. Don't pretend you didn't hear it right, or anything like that. The Avada wouldn't work, any more than the other one."

"But it did," Ron shook his head, trying to avoid talking about the other curse Harry had tried. "You dispelled him… unmade him like he was just an ordinary enchantment. That's… well, it's incredible. It'd be horrible too, if it weren't Kreacher, but…"

"This was his house, Ron!" Harry snapped. "He was taught to be the way he is… and I killed him for it."

"It was self-defence," Ron protested. "C'mon, Harry… come back down with the rest of us. I don't think anyone else heard you shout. We'll talk about it in the morning."

"How did you find me?" Ron helped him to his feet, and they left the room.

"Ginny told us you'd gone up to the top of the house- she wouldn't say why, though, but I guessed you'd be looking through Sirius' room or something, and, well, we got tired waiting up for you, so Hermione and I went to bed. Different beds," Ron added, his face flushing slightly. Harry, for the first time in hours, remembered just why he'd been listening at the door in the first place. That, in turn, brought back memories of what he'd heard there, and he drew away from Ron slightly, before slumping even more heavily against him in exhaustion. It was pointless. Hermione had been right, after all. He held his hand up, and stared at it, trying- with some difficulty, to bring the fingers into focus so he could count, as Ron half-dragged him down the stairs.

Bellatrix, Cruciatus. Not enough hate behind it, she'd said. Well, he was certainly working on that. Dudley, Avada threatened. Would he have done it? Or was that just a joke?

Oh, wonderful, Harry, joke about the curse that killed your parents.

Uncle Vernon, Avada threatened. Yes, he certainly would have done it. He was almost sure, remembered the cold fury he'd felt when Vernon had struck his aunt. Then… then Snape. Not Cruciatus, but it might as well have been.

How satisfying was it for you, Harry?

Finally, two more Killing Curses, one in a dream, and one in reality. Neither really accomplished much… but the curse he'd used instead of the Killing Curse at the end certainly had, so Harry supposed that might as well count.

"Just time for Imperius before breakfast…" he muttered.

"Ron? Harry?" Ginny and Hermione peered round the door from their room. "What are the two of you doing roaming about?" Hermione demanded. "And what was that scream?"

I have to stop it. I can't… I can't talk to them. Ron knows. No, Ron thinks he knows. Talk to him, persuade him to…

"There was a spell…" Ginny began, looking uncertain. "I think I'm still mixed up in the wards around this place after this morning- a spell sort of twisted round inside them. Something really horrible. Are you both sure you're all right?" She asked, looking challengingly at Ron.

"We… we're fine, Ginny," Ron tried. "Forget it, we all need some sleep."

"Wait." Harry raised his head muzzily, and only then remembered that he'd left his spectacles somewhere in Sirius' room. Well, they could go back in the morning- assuming he or Kreacher hadn't crushed them in their fight. "We need to talk. Tomorrow, after breakfast, in Sirius' old room."

"Harry…" Ron winced. "Are you sure you want to go back there?"

"I don't think I've got a choice, Ron." He looked at the three of them- three blurs that they were, and hung his head. "I need your help."

* * *

"Here they are." Hermione retrieved Harry's glasses from under the bed, and repaired them with an old, familiar spell.

"I've _got_ to try and remember that one," he muttered, and put them on. He blinked. The room seemed so… different in daylight. No longer terrifying, just… old and sad. And black, of course. The curtains were black, the carpet black, and the (white) plaster festooned with black cobwebs. He sighed. "Why didn't Sirius let your mother clean up in here?" he asked. Ron shrugged, and Ginny bounced on the bed.

"Because he didn't want to admit to himself that he'd come home," she mused. "I think he liked to think of it as just somewhere he was staying for the time being."

Harry sat on the edge of the bed, and tried to straighten out the mess of the sheets. As he did so, Hermione caught sight of the blood on them, and caught her breath.

"What happened here last night?" she demanded. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, 'Mione," he smiled, sadly. "Just a few nicks in my arm- but they healed up once… well…" he hesitated. "I don't know. Once he'dgone, it was like they were just little scratches. It was weird."

"He?" Ginny stared at him, her eyes widening. "Harry, that spell I sensed… it wasn't You Kn… Voldemort, was it?"

Ron started, and both Harry and Ginny rounded on him testily. He held up his hands, defensively.

"OK, OK… it's just I'm not used to hearing Ginny say it," he apologised. Ginny's eyes glinted hard, and she looked proudly at Harry.

"I'm… not… afraid… of… Little… Tommy," she said. Harry grinned, but then his face fell, remembering when he had last seen her look so trustingly at him, remembering the dream.

"Harry? What's wrong?"

He couldn't say. They were alone, the four of them, his two best friends, and Ginny, a good friend who seemed to have come out of nowhere last year, the three people he trusted most in the world now that Sirius was gone… but… he couldn't disappoint them so much. He remembered Dumbledore's face the night before, tried to imagine that look in Hermione's eyes, or Ron's, or Ginny's… and tears started in his eyes.

"Last night," Ron began, somewhat nervously, glancing in Hermione's direction, "Harry killed Kreacher."

"What?" Hermione sat upright, staring. Whatever she'd expected, it hadn't been this.

"He attacked him, Hermione! Harry had to fight back."

"He didn't have to use Avada Kedavra though," Ginny said quietly. Harry's eyes snapped up to meet hers. She avoided his gaze.

"How did you recognise it?" Harry whispered.

Ginny smiled mirthlessly.

"I've been under the Imperius Curse, Harry. That's all that bastard Riddle's diary was, really. They found it lying outside the school gates- Lucius Malfoy must have thrown it away, after he saw you'd wrecked it. The Aurors did some tests on it. Dad only told me last year, but that's what it was. Barty Crouch put all you lot under it as a test, when he was pretending to be Mad-Eye Moody, and you've felt Cruciatus first hand, Harry, like Neville." She swallowed. "You've also felt the Killing Curse yourself… I haven't, obviously, but even just the Imperius was enough… I think there's a 'feel' to the Unforgivables, something about the way they're put together, about whoever it was made the curses up in the first place. It was one of them, and Harry wouldn't use Cruciatus."

She was so certain of it, that Harry desperately wished for his heart to stop.

"I have." Three faces froze. Harry continued, his voice numb. "Last summer, at the Ministry, after Bellatrix Lestrange killed Sirius, I hit her with the Cruciatus curse." He paused. Ron's mouth was working like a goldfish's, but no sound was coming out. Ginny and Hermione had gone white. After a moment, Harry continued. "It didn't do very much. She told me I had to put more hatred into that- not to just want revenge, but to really enjoy the pain I was putting someone through. I didn't think I could do that, until last night."

"Harry, mate, Snape was asking for it!" Ron interjected, hotly. "You can't say that. He pissed you off, that's all."

"And what's going to happen the next time someone 'pisses me off', Ron?" Harry asked, wearily, pushing his hair back from his forehead, and indicating his scar. "Something like this? I've already threatened two of the Dursleys with the Killing Curse this summer, remember?"

"Harry, threatening someone is not the same as doing it. You still have time to pull back, to get your temper under control."

"You've changed your tune from last night, Hermione," he said, coldly. "But you were right. I am… having a problem. Maybe I am depressed, God knows I've got enough to be depressed about, maybe I'm just stark staring bonkers… or maybe having this damn thing-" he struck one hand hard against the scar, "-bleeding my mind into Voldemort's is going to turn me into a monster like him… I don't know… but I do know it's only a matter of time before I go too far, really too far. Whether I'll be angry, or whether I'll just be so out of it that I think it's somehow funny, I don't know, but the next time I kill it might not be self-defence." Abruptly, he stood up from the bed, and walked over to the window, pressing his forehead against the cold of the glass. "I've been telling myself I've got to learn to fight, I've got to kill Voldemort so I can stay alive, and save the world. Fat lot of good it'll be me saving them from Voldemort if I turn into something as bad as he is."

"That's not going to happen, Harry," Ginny went to him, and tried to turn him to face them. He stood immovable.

"Prove it, Gin? I didn't want to kill Kreacher. I don't want to kill anybody. I felt like hell over what I did to Snape. I know I'm not evil, I don't need you telling me that… but I'm not talking about now. Three or four years ago you were scared even to speak to me. Last night you were teasing me, practically flirting, just to take my mind off what happened at the meeting. Just under six years ago, Ron and Hermione hated each other's guts. Last night they were kissing." He smiled, thinly, at the small panic this caused in the other two. "Do you know what I'll be like in five years time? No, Gin. What am I going to turn into? Next time I might kill Snape… then how long, how long before one of you annoys me so badly, or I just stop caring any more? Even now, I don't always feel… and…"

"That's nonsense, Harry Potter," Hermione came over to him. "You're afraid of what you might do to the people you love, because you don't feel. Surely you can see that doesn't make sense. We trust you. Trust yourself."

"You trust me! That's not what you said…" he trailed off.

"Trusting you to be one hundred percent reliable and to look after _yourself_ is not the same as trusting you not to slaughter everyone in sight and try to take over the world, you idiot!" Hermione pulled him round, and hugged him fiercely. "Why are you always so… so…"

"He's practically an adopted Weasley, Hermione," Ron remarked. "Making you despair is in the genes. Now," he put a hand on Harry's shoulder. "You shut up and listen for once. It's not going to happen. You're not going to kill us, you're not going to torture us, and you're not going to control us."

"Saying that's one thing, Ron, but stopping it happen…"

"I told you to shut up." Ron exchanged a glance with Ginny, and then ploughed on. "I'll tell you why it's not going to happen, Harry. It's not going to happen because in this room, before we go back to Hogwarts, the four of us are going to swear an oath. A proper one, magically binding and everything. Hermione should be able to find something that fits in Sirius' family library- and you and Ginny are powerful enough to cast it properly between you." Harry looked up, his face a mass of confusion.

"What oath?" he asked.

"Simple," Ron told him. "We trust you. You might not trust yourself, but I hope you trust us, mate. Personally, I think you'd never go too far, you'd only ever use the Unforgivables if you really had to… but if you don't trust yourself, then you're going to swear to us, on the solemnest oath we can find, that you won't ever- ever- use any one of those curses again. Not ever."

"Not just him, Ron," Ginny looked at her brother, then at Harry. "We're in this together, Harry, and it's about time you remembered that again. I don't give a damn what that old bat Trelawney predicted- I'm not even sure I believe it… but if you think you're going to face Voldemort alone, without our help, then you're a bigger idiot than Percy. The same goes for this. We're a family, Harry. The four of us. All four of us swear it, together. When Hermione's found the right oath for us to take, we all swear to never use the Unforgivable Curses… even in the worst moment." Her brow furrowed for a moment, and then cleared. Oddly formal, yet certain of herself, Ginny finished: "They have no place amongst our kind any longer."

The Boy-Who-Lived made his way back to the bed, supported by his friends, and sat down, heavily. For a long time, he wept, and they held him in their arms. Then, nearly an hour later, he lifted his head.

"Just one thing," he remarked, with the ghost of a genuine smile. "We are _not_ going to be called 'The Forgivables'."


	6. The Charge of the Mighty Tonks

****

Chapter Six: The Charge of the Mighty Tonks

The next few days passed quietly enough. Occasionally, one member or other of the Order called at the house and left a message, or collected one. Harry might have felt frustrated that Dumbledore had not said more to him since their last meeting- if he were not now so determined to enjoy his time with his friends while it lasted.

There were shadows too, of course. The four teenagers had decided to keep the incident with Kreacher private- everyone else assumed him to have been long gone anyway, and Hermione spent at least part of every day in the house library, searching for a suitable binding oath to use. They were aware that Arthur and Molly would probably frown upon them using binding magic- especially when it was likely of a fairly Dark nature, and would, at the least, want to know the reason, which would open up a whole can of worms Harry and the others did not wish to answer, so the adolescents kept themselves to themselves. Even the younger Order members- Fred, George, and Tonks, were kept in the dark.

The four were not unhappy though. Harry's breakdown had brought down many of the barriers which had grown up between them, and for a time they played like children, chasing up and down the corridors of the house, practising jinxes and mild curses more for the fun of it than for training, simply sharing in Harry's joy at finding he was not alone.

On the afternoon of 15th August, as they gathered again in Sirius' old room, well away from prying ears, Hermione entered last, almost dragging an enormous, black leather-bound book.

"Um, don't strain anything, Hermione," Ron remarked, putting his own hands behind his back, and enduring the blood-curdling glare he subsequently received.

"The boy has the manners of a toad," the witch noted, gratefully accepting Harry and Ginny's assistance to lift the heavy book on to the bed. Ginny giggled.

"You'd better apologise to Trevor for that, when we next see Neville," she grinned. Ron winced.

"Hey, before you all take her side, she dropped that thing on my foot three times when we were trying to get it out of the library," he protested. "I'll be crippled for life!"

"Better stand down and let me be Quidditch captain then," Harry commented distractedly, studying the pentagram-like sigil inlaid in silver on the book's somewhat damp cover.

"Not on your life!"

"I'm still amazed Hermione managed to get you into a library outside of term time in the first place, mate," Harry murmured, tracing the silver with his finger. Ron spluttered, until Ginny broke in.

"Oh, I think she used the same method you used to get Cho Chang to join the DA last year, Harry," the female redhead smirked, sitting next to him on the blankets.

"Really?" Harry looked over his glasses at Ginny. "Well, at least…" He got no further.

"When you've quite finished," Hermione said, tartly. "Ron and I are, in case you've forgotten, Harry, trying to help." Harry blanched slightly, and the bushy-haired witch laid an apologetic hand on his arm. "I've found what might be a suitable oath… although it'll take most of the rest of the summer to prepare the ritual."

"Let's hear it." Harry swung his legs back under him and sat up attentively, his face growing almost instantly impassive. That draining of feeling that had so worried Hermione and himself at the start of the holidays had become almost a habit now- brought under control and worked into his Occlumency exercises. It could still be disconcerting- both to himself and others- but at least he'd turned a symptom into a talent.

Hermione nodded, and thumbed through the book to the right place.

"It's written in Old French," she apologised, "and my accent's not very good, so I won't try to read it aloud. You'd know what it meant if either of you had bothered to read any of the guides to Ancient Magical Tongues we've been given over the last few years," she added pointedly to Ron and Harry. "But since all your copies seem not to have been taken out of the original packaging… or, in the case of one, to have been turned into owl-bedding-" a hard look at Harry here, "… I'll translate as required. The oath requires those taking it to abjure from a particular spell, curse, or hex."

"That's what we want," Ron nodded to Harry. Harry gnawed on his lip. Hermione watched him for a moment, and then sighed.

"Since it's obviously on the tip of your tongue, Harry, it also arranges certain… consequences if the caster breaks the oath." She paused again, and met Ron's eyes for a minute.

"There are… two versions of the oath. The first reflects the curse back upon the caster. If one of us used the Cruciatus curse on Draco Malfoy, for instance, then he would be in pain, but so would the one who cast the spell. Not only that, but his pain would abate as the caster's ability to control the spell diminished, but the caster's pain would continue until the other people who took the oath- the other three of us- unanimously agreed to lift the curse from him or her. The results of using the Killing Curse are obvious, two dead instead of one… and the Imperius Curse would, I suspect, cause some sort of mental feedback loop effect, like having a loudspeaker too close to a microphone, which would do bad things to the spell-caster's brain." She looked at Harry, who was nodding, and then to Ron and Ginny, both raised in the wizarding world, who looked completely lost. "Never mind. The final decision is for all of us, I think, but I feel we ought to look at the other version of the oath."

"If Harry doesn't mind me saying so," Ginny said, "I don't think knowing that he was going to die doing it would stop him using the Avada Kedavra curse on Voldemort. In fact, I rather suspect it'd make you more ready to do it, Harry?"

Harry looked pained. "I don't want to ever cast that again," he said. "But… if I wanted to destroy Voldemort… if I had to do it, if nothing was stopping me… I don't know that I'd want to be around afterwards, no. Not if I knew I couldn't stick to not using the Unforgivables."

"The other version," Hermione broke in, watching Harry's face with some concern, "makes more use of the conjoined circle of the oath-takers, and relies upon a bond of friendship. Bluntly, in this version of the oath, the prohibited curse's power is spread around the other oath-takers. It wouldn't be enough to kill, in the case of the Avada Kedavra- just a quarter of the curse's power per person, but it would cause pain." She looked directly at Harry. "We place ourselves, our trust, our lives, in each other's hands. We are as strong as all four together."

Harry looked back, and smiled.

"You've obviously decided, 'Mione. Ron?" He looked up to his best friend's face. Ron glanced once down at Hermione, and gave a short nod.

"We've always trusted each other, haven't we?" he asked. "If we hadn't, the lot of us would have got killed long ago." He paused, then added, in a creditable impression of Hermione, "Or worse, expelled."

"Git," Hermione threw back over her shoulder. Harry turned to look at Ginny.

"What do you think, Gin?"

"I'm in." Ginny didn't hesitate. "With Hermione's brains, my looks, and you and Ron as cannon fodder, we can't fail."

"Then I guess it's up to me." Harry closed his eyes a moment. "Thank you… all of you. You don't have to do this for me, you know."

"Of course we do." Hermione snorted. "It just so happens that it was you… but there's that same temptation for all of us, Harry. Let's not make any bones about it, we're fighting a war against someone very powerful, and very evil. Any quick route to victory is going to be tempting… and if we're going to stop Voldemort without becoming Voldemort, we have to draw a line. For all of us."

"Then I say we go with it," Harry opened his eyes again. "What do we need to do?"

Hermione explained. Firstly, they needed some supplies- potion ingredients, certain markers and totems- ordinarily materials which they would have purloined from Snape's stores cupboard, but outside school would be forced to acquire somewhat more legitimately.

"We need to go to Diagon Alley," she finished. "The sooner the better, and we might as well get our schoolbooks for the next year while we're there." Ron groaned. "It would make a good cover story, Ron," she snapped.

"But how do we do that?" Ginny frowned. "Muggle London's one thing- no one's going to find you in all those crowds, but I can't see Mum letting us into Diagon Alley without a six-Auror guard this year."

"A one-Auror guard would probably be enough to keep the three of you safe," Harry broke in, his eyes glittering intently, "And would allow Hermione the chance to slip into the suppliers' she needs to visit, without anyone finding out."

"One guard?" Ron snorted. "You'd be lucky. It's all very well for Ginny to talk about Muggle London, but Hermione and me had to talk fast to get to go down Oxford Street without Mundungus Fletcher trailing after us," he grimaced. "Like a Death Eater would have a chance of getting us there. You-Know-Who would probably have got some fat American tourist's elbow in his face half-way through the Killing Curse."

"I don't think his nose could _get_ any flatter," Harry murmured. "And Sturgis Podmore was following you that day, anyhow." The duo's faces fell. Harry grinned though. "However, there's Aurors and Aurors… and since the textbooks have got to be bought, Molly could only be pleased if we came up with someone inconspicuous who'd be able to keep an eye on us while keeping herself anonymous." He chuckled. "Let's ask Tonks if she feels like a bit of shopping."

* * *

The Underground was, Harry and Hermione had decided, not a place in which to put wizards. Strangely enough, although the Tube was strictly a Muggle enterprise officially, and no magic had gone into its making, on each occasion Harry had used it, nearly a third of the people he'd seen had been wizards. Sometimes wizards he knew, or recognised from Diagon Alley or other places, sometimes people he only guessed were wizards from their ill-conceived efforts to 'fit in', and ill-chosen clothes, and practically every time the train lurched to a halt, somebody's wand fell out of a pocket and was hastily retrieved. He'd forgotten how many times small red sparks shooting out of a dropped wand had been explained away with a muttered "Damn, my laser pointer's on the blink," or similar, from one unfortunate wizard or another. On one occasion, when two trains moved by each other in a tunnel junction, he was for a moment certain he'd seen Cornelius Fudge and Dolores Umbridge talking animatedly with Percy Weasley, but it had only been for a split-second.

Despite this near superfluity of wizard-kind, the fact remained that the Underground was not a wise place for them. They (as had previously been noted) dropped their wands. Their children's accidental magic interfered with the power grid and stranded trains between stations for hours. They occasionally got over-excited on the platform when a train rushed out of the tunnel, and attempted to Stun it. They got bored and cast Vanishment charms on the information screens. Occasionally, they even found the station they had meant to get to, and returned to the comparative sanity of the magical world, but this was very rare, or so it seemed to Harry. Tonks was a relatively worldly-wise young witch, but even she, Harry and Hermione agreed, would have to be cured of saying 'Wotcher' to everyone she bumped into in the carriage, and had to be reminded each time to hang on when the train stopped and started, or she would fall on top of one of the teenagers in a heap. On one occasion, Ginny declared that the somewhat clumsy young Auror appeared to have at least sixteen elbows and thirty knees, all of them sharp.

One odyssey later, the five of them scrambled out into the light, and made their way towards the Leaky Cauldron. As they stood in the back yard, letting Ginny mark out the sign on the bricks, Tonks took Harry aside.

"Right, now maybe you'll let me know why you lot asked for me, specially for this little trip of yours?" she regarded him with narrow eyes. "Last I checked, I didn't read 'Nanny' in my job description."

"Um, because you're young and fun to be with?" he offered.

"You're too honest to make a good liar, Potter," Tonks stuck her tongue out at him. "Lying takes practice."

"How about not noticing things about what your friends are doing, that you think your friends' parents would like you to notice?" Ginny asked over her shoulder.

"If that made sense," Tonks rolled her eyes, "That would be good lying practice, yeah, but a young and devilishly beautiful metamorphmagus Auror would probably lie better on a full stomach, and after a glass of Firewhisky."

"Well," Harry skipped lightly out of reach, "Since Nymphadora Tonks is the only one of us here who's old enough to buy Firewhisky in the Leaky Cauldron…" she held a finger up, and her hair turned blonde.

"Old enough to buy it, not the only one old enough to pay for it, Potter. Cough up, and I'll get you lot Butterbeers as well. Then we'll go shopping. Mind, I don't say I'll let you lot go gallivanting round on your own- Molly would rip me limb from limb if anything happened to any of you- but I'll turn a blind eye so long as what you're up to isn't too dangerous."

"Deal, Nymphadora." Harry smirked.

"Behave, Potter, or Nanny will smack your behind." Tonks glared at him. Harry grinned cheekily and, exchanging an _evil_ wink with Ginny, responded:

"Later, maybe, if I don't get a better offer."

* * *

When Tonks had had her liquid lunch and bribe, the five of them continued into the Alley. All five were struck by how much quieter it had become than in previous years. They looked around. Yes, the alley still bustled with witches and wizards going about their affairs, buying, selling, gossiping… but somehow the brightness, the animation, the sparkle, had faded. Movement across the street seemed hurried, uncertain, and it was not unusual to see furtive, fearful glances cast about.

"This place- with so many in one place," Tonks breathed sadly, "Molly's right, it is a target… and everyone knows it."

Harry exchanged looks with Ron, Ginny, and Hermione. He'd effectively pledged to the Order that he was going to do what he could to change that, and even though he still had no idea how to begin, the responsibility of that pledge was beginning to settle upon him, as he looked at the bustling street of wizards, so much of its noise and jollity now silenced by apprehension.

Where do I start?

He checked himself with a memory.

"Tonks," he began, "D'you mind if we split up, just for a moment? Ron and Hermione have got their… errand to run, you know, the one that you're going to forget about, and I need to go to Ollivander's. The other four glanced at him, a little surprised. He shook his head.

"It's for Neville, remember? That… Death Eater," he searched for a better word, and failed, "… snapped his wand in half. I told him at the end of last term that I'd arrange a replacement for him. He'll have to select it himself, I know, but since it was DA business, I feel I ought to pay for it in advance." He frowned. "Also… I thought if it was presented to him by the Order- well, he was really upset because it was his dad's wand, and Mr Longbottom used to be in the Order, so I hoped that might make it all right. A bit." He finished, with a grimace. To his surprise, Tonks slapped him on the back.

"Good one, Harry. You'll be a good leader one day. It's called 'duty of care', and you're right, we do owe him. Listen, that mess in the Ministry was Order business, even if it was your Army that got caught in the thick of it, so let's do it together. We'll take Ginny, Ron and Hermione down to Pinchmeal and Grind's Magical Binding Artefacts- I know Ayliss Pinchmeal, friendly she isn't, but she's certainly not a spy for the Death Eaters, and then the two of us'll go up to Ollivander's Wands while they're browsing." She chuckled. "That way I _really_ didn't see them buying anything they shouldn't. Now, about Neville's wand," she began, as they made their way along the street, "D'you know much about it? The usual way if you're buying a replacement wand for someone- happens all the time- is to give old Ollivander the run-down on the old wand, then for him to tell you he knew already, he remembers every wand, blah-blah-blah, then he 'senses' you, sort of feels round your magic for traces of the other person you're buying it for, and he draws up a short list of about ten wands or so for the person to choose from."

Harry looked perplexed.

"I don't… I mean, I know Neville, and his magic's strong- he sometimes can't do much with it, but I think that's just him getting the wrong end of the stick, he's not actually a squib or anything, look how well he did in the DA last year… but I don't know much about the wand."

"I do." Ginny marched up alongside him. "Holly," she remarked, "which fits with him sharing your birthday, Harry," she added, with a sidelong glance, "cored with a strand of unicorn hair. I tried to fix the thing so he could use it properly once, the year before last," she explained, "But there didn't seem to be anything wrong with it. I mean, I'm not an expert like Mr Ollivander, but…" she shook her head. "Well, I can't explain it in words, it just felt as if it wasn't the wand that was the problem."

Tonks gave Ginny a queer look.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," the young Auror muttered. "Well, yes, that's the third time I've heard you talk about 'feeling' your way around magic." She frowned. "That's not all that common a talent, Ginny. Most witches or wizards who have it are quite powerful."

"She's that all right!" Ron laughed. "When she was a baby, she turned everyone in the house blue for a day and a half."

"Yes, thank you Ronald," Ginny hissed.

"Remind me to stay on your good side," Harry told her. "Anyway, can I ask you for some help with this wand business then?"

"I would be delighted." Ginny grinned, and took Harry's arm. Tonks seized his other elbow, and they set off down the street at a run, half lifting an alarmed looking Harry as they went along.

"Those two are as bad as each other," Hermione shook her head. "Come on, we'd better follow them, or Tonks will forget all about showing us the way to Pinchmeal's."

Ron grinned. "Harry and Ginny are good for each other though," he commented. "They… well, they get on really well, and it cheers him up, doesn't it? It's a shame Ginny and Dean are…" He stopped, at the expression on Hermione's face. "What? " he asked. "What?"

"Honestly, Ron," Hermione laughed. "If Ginny catches you matchmaking for her, she'll probably make you into matchsticks herself. Come on, let's go shopping."

* * *

"Vanilla and coffee." Ginny offered Harry the remaining ice cream cone, and sank into the opposite chair. They were sitting outside Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, enjoying some moments of bright sunshine on an otherwise dismal afternoon. Harry blinked, and- after checking with his free hand that his wand was somewhere he could easily reach it if need be, tasted the ice cream.

"Sorry, I was miles away."

"Not for the first time." She shook her head, making her hair sparkle copper in the sunlight. "That's the fourth time you've checked your wand, and Tonks has only been gone five minutes."

"She told me to look after you while she was chasing after the others," Harry told her. "I'm not going to let either of you down, thanks."

"Harry, I have a wand too, remember. I'm perfectly capable of hexing Lucius Malfoy into next week," she smiled. "_After_ I stuff that damned diary down his throat and set fire to it, that is."

"Hm." Harry chuckled. "I remember a Virginia Weasley who wouldn't say boo to a goose, never mind beating up Death Eaters."

"You wait till you hear what I'm planning to do to Little Tommy." She grinned evilly, and rather spoiled the effect by licking her ice cream.

"Would a Sticking Charm, the back end of a Hippogriff, and several gallons of 'Runyman's Patent Mixture for the Regular Bowel Movements of Magical Beasts' have anything to do with it?" he enquired, innocently. Ginny gave a slightly crazed grin, and Harry winced.

"Hey, he's my evil nemesis," he complained. "Pretty soon I'll have to be protecting him from you. Maybe I should warn Dean he's dating the new Dark Lady."

"Dark Lady, I could get used to that," Ginny chuckled, and then did a brief double-take. "Sorry, Dean? As in Dean Thomas? What's he got to do with any of this?"

"Er, Dean as in your boyfriend?" Harry blinked, having slightly lost the plot.

"Oh…" Ginny blushed red. "Oh… er… yes, that Dean. Of course, my lovely boyfriend Dean, who I'm going out with very much, and… er…" she struck her forehead with the palm of her hand. "Look, just don't tell Ronniekins, all right?"

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Do I gather you're _not_ going out with him?" He wrinkled his brow. "Funny that… I could have sworn I remembered a conversation on the way back from school at the start of the summer. Remember, Ginny? We'd just heard from you that Michael Corner was going out with Cho-" oddly enough, it didn't hurt at all, "and you told Ron you'd chosen Dean instead, and asked if he was any better?"

"Ohhh…" Ginny giggled. "Well, er, you see, Harry… like I said, don't tell Ron, but that was a bit of a…"

"Lie?" he supplied. "Fib? Wrongdoing? Government statement?"

"That kind of thing," she blushed. "If I didn't mention someone then Ron would have kept badgering me about it all summer- now that he's found out I've got a love-life, he'll be completely obsessed, I know he will… and Dean just popped into my head."

"You do realise how much the poor boy's going to have to put up with from Ron this term, if your brother thinks he's going out with you, don't you?"

"I'll pay him!" Ginny protested. "Dean's hopeless at Transfiguration, and I'm rather good at it. I'll offer to help him with his homework."

"What about if Dean meets someone he likes?" Harry gaped at her. "I wouldn't like to think how many pieces Ron would tear him into if he thought Dean was cheating on you."

"Oh, Harry, it was only a short-term thing," Ginny laughed. "Just to get Ron off my back a bit. A couple of days into term and my brother will be up to his eyebrows in backlogs of homework, and then he probably wouldn't notice if I started dating Malfoy. Or Parvati."

Harry turned scarlet. Ginny stuck out her tongue at him.

"Gotcha."

"Still," Harry grinned, teasingly. "It must mean something, that you picked Dean out."

"What?" she asked. "It had to be someone in your year- I'm not having Ron pick on someone younger- and a Gryffindor, for the joke to work… and I don't know any of the seventh years. So who else? _Seamus Finnegan_? "

"Nothing wrong with Seamus." Harry said, loyally. Even though he'd had his differences with the boy last year, they were still old friends.

"Nothing a good bath and banning from a Quidditch pitch for life wouldn't sort out, if that isn't too sensitive a subject! Half the reason Michael and I split up was that he was completely obsessed with Quidditch…"

"This, coming from our only Chaser. I think Ron needs to know about this," Harry needled.

"Harry, there's liking Quidditch, and there's having the word 'Firebolt' magically written on certain parts of your anatomy."

"I beg your pardon?" Harry's jaw dropped. Ginny sighed, and went on, tartly:

"Lavender Brown doesn't know when to keep her mouth shut, and that's the reason I know. It's also the reason she knows, but we won't go there."

"No, Virginia, let's not. In fact, I recommend that we call in Ministry Obliviators as soon as possible."

"Trust me, if you worked with those clowns you'd think twice about letting them near anybody's memory." A hand clapped down on Harry's shoulder, and a second later its owner found herself sprawled in the road, Harry's wand levelled between her eyes. He blinked twice, and flushed crimson.

"Tonks?" Harry croaked, mortified. "I'm sorry… I thought… well, I wasn't thinking, and when you just popped up and put your hand on my shoulder…" he shook his head violently, and offered her his hand.

"That's the second pretty girl the boy's mistaken for You-Know-Who," Fred- who was standing, along with George, beside Ron and Hermione, who had watched Tonks' mistake with a sort of horrified fascination, remarked.

"True," George rejoined. "And he isn't even old enough to get drunk yet." Tonks glared at them, gratefully accepting Harry's hand.

"Idiots," she commented. "And me too. Sorry, Harry, my fault." She winked at Ginny. "He certainly takes 'look after Ginny' to heart, doesn't he?"

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" Fred and George thundered. "And we'll have you know, Harry," one twin started,

"That assaulting the latest love of our life," the other- Harry _thought_ it was Fred, since it was wearing a sweater with a 'G' embroidered on it,

"Cannot go unrewarded," George finished, and produced a sweet from his pocket with a flourish. "Exploding humbug?"

Tonks' hair developed a black-and-white chessboard pattern, and her nose pointed menacingly at the Weasley twins.

"Refer to me as the 'love of your life', 'sweetheart', or anything like that again, Fred and George Weasley," she growled, "And I will reveal to your mother exactly what you were up to on July 5th. Do I need to elaborate?" The twins fell silent.

"I've had to put up with them all my life, Tonks," Ron sighed. "They don't get any better."

"Did you find the…" Harry glanced at Tonks, "What you were looking for?"

Hermione nodded.

"It's all there. Now, you three, schoolbooks. March!"

* * *

"Night, Harry." Ron turned over under his blankets. Harry murmured a good night of his own, over on his side of the room, and turned down the light. He rolled over, letting his mind subside into a pleasant state of half-sleep. He wasn't quite ready to let go of consciousness just yet. All the happy memories of the day seemed to be drifting about somewhere in his brain. Tonks telling him he'd make a good leader, he cared about his friends- and then teasing him about being protective of Ginny. Ron and Hermione, caught nearly kissing in Flourish and Blott's later in the afternoon. He wasn't sure exactly what was going on with those two, really- they didn't appear to be 'going out', in any recognisable sense, but their lips had a knack of finding one another whenever they thought they were left alone, unless they occupied themselves busily by talking- preferably arguing. So, as a result, the two now seemed to deliberately pick fights with each other- not that there was any noticeable difference between them fighting on purpose and just fighting because they were Ron and Hermione, of course. They seemed to be working on the principle that using their mouths to argue and score points off each other constantly was the best way to prevent their lips getting stuck together.

Harry wondered, with a sly smile, just where that left him. Isolated? He didn't feel isolated by the new developments. After all, he could talk to Ginny. That thought started another train of thought, which he quickly halted for being ridiculous. After all, she was practically his sister. _Sometimes, Mr Potter, an ice cream and a bit of friendly banter in the sunshine is just what it seems and nothing more,_ he told himself. _All right then, Harry, enjoy it for what it seems._ He nodded happily to himself. Too much of his life revolved around the end of the world, and Voldemort, Potions Essays and other dreadful things. He decided he actually didn't give a damn about whether he had more serious things to be worrying about. _Sorry, Voldie, but I can't play your game all the time,_ he smirked, and, happily dreaming of summer time and friendship, drifted into sleep.

* * *

PAIN

FEAR

DEATH

AVADA KEDAVRA

HELP ME

NO HELP WILL COME

He strode into the Muggle dwelling, looking about himself for the sacrifices. Yes… there they were. Bellatrix, her eyes alight with their usual delight at fulfilling his will, stood behind the dining chairs, her wand dancing over the faces of the three sitting in them. The father, a fat, bald man in his forties, was writhing and twitching against his bonds, his eyes rolling back in his head, and an ululating wail coming from his mouth. Inspecting him more closely, Voldemort noted with amusement that the man had bitten out his own tongue.

"Yesss… Bella, your gifts with Cruciatus are unmatched, my dear… do pray, continue," he hissed, and turned to regard the man's wife and child, shrinking into their seats in terror. Smiling, he reached out a hand, and caressed the child's jaw. A girl, about twelve. For the moment the thought of giving her to his Death Eaters for amusement crossed his mind, but he decided against it. Too… sordid. Too easy. No, this particular strike should be demonstration of the magical arts.

He smiled again, his pointed teeth licked by a forked tongue. With a gesture from him, Pettigrew scurried forward, pressing the hilt of a long, saw-edged knife into his hand. Voldemort severed the woman's ropes with a word, and then threw the knife down on the table in front of her. Then he turned his inner eye upon himself, and tilted his head back with glee.

"Potter… stay with us a while. Stay, Potter, stay and watch with me. I would entertain you before I destroy you," he whispered to the awareness he could sense within him, clear again after so many weeks deadened by Occlumency. He could feel the boy's sleeping mind revolting, trying to tear itself away to wakefulness- but no, no, he would not end their connection until he was finished.

The woman, meanwhile, had snatched up the knife, and lunged at him. He met her with his wand.

"Imperio." She froze, and, still pointing with the wand, he gestured towards first the knife in the Muggle woman's hand, and then to her tied daughter. "Take her apart," he purred. "Piece by piece."


	7. Darkness and Light

_Resubmitted and updated version, because the original, as rightly pointed out, didn't work. Now we have a new title, and a better chapter. Hopefully it's still not gone too far over the top.

* * *

_

**Chapter Seven: **Darkness and Light

"NO!"

Ron woke with a start, his head muzzy, and looked over at Harry. The boy was sitting up, his hands clasped over his ears, his eyes closed tight, and his scar seeming to blaze with light.

"Harry, is it You-Know-Voldemort, is he…" he began, but stopped, as Harry's eyes snapped open. In them was such a look of terror and hatred mingled that he was silenced.

"Damn you!" Harry snarled- not at Ron, but at some voice inside his head. He kicked off the covers, and dashed- still clutching his head with one hand, to the fireplace. Then he drew his wand out of his pyjama sleeve.

"Incendio!" Flames roared up, but Harry was already fumbling on the mantelpiece. "Blast it, where is it… I had Tonks get hold of some, but… ah!" He took the lid from a small pot and threw a pinch of Floo Powder into the flames, then knelt, pushing his face into the fire, and calling out "The Headmaster's Rooms, Hogwarts School," as he did so.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore had been about to retire for the night- after a long and fairly rewarding game of chess with a portrait of one of his forebears- when Harry Potter's face appeared in his fire. He set the board aside and, straightening his white nightcap, looked at the boy's pale and obviously upset disembodied face.

"What is wrong, Harry?" The Boy-Who-Lived's answer was terse, and to the point.

"Voldemort. Him, Bellatrix Lestrange, and Wormtail. They attacked a Muggle house. You've got to find them, Professor."

"I assume you gained this information through your connection with Voldemort?" Dumbledore's voice was faintly tinged with concern. "Are you certain, Harry, that…"

"That it's the truth?" he nodded. "Yes, he wanted me to see it, but more for amusement than anything else."

Dumbledore was already moving to his desk.

"You realise, Harry, that however fast we are, it may be too late."

"It's already too late," Harry told him, his eyes shadowed. "He wouldn't let me out of his mind until they'd finished. A family lived there. Three of them. The man's dead." He swallowed. "Bellatrix tortured him until his heart stopped." Then he looked sick. "The daughter too. Then they left. The woman's still alive- at least, she was when Voldemort left."

"Most unlike Voldemort to show mercy," Dumbledore frowned. "Especially to a Muggle."

"Letting her live wasn't any sort of mercy, Dumbledore!" Harry snapped. "Please… you have to be with her." His eyes looked haunted. "Just… make sure the Ministry don't do anything to her- she needs to know what really happened." He shook his head. "Please, find her… go to her." His face seemed to crumple, and moved abruptly out of the firelight.

* * *

Neither Ron nor Harry got any sleep that night. Harry- reluctantly- admitted that he'd witnessed one of Voldemort's attacks on Muggles, but refused to give any details. He also asked that Ron not wake Hermione or Ginny.

"I'll talk about it… later," he said, in a queer, breathless tone. Harry sat on the edge of his bed, sweating and rubbing his brow compulsively. To any of Ron's questions, he simply shook his head, and continued gazing into the fire. When he started to shiver, Ron passed him a dressing gown, but otherwise watched, worriedly, from his own side of the room. Finally, at almost three am, the fire roared into life again, and Professor Dumbledore, his own face carrying a trace of that sick cast which coloured Harry's, stepped awkwardly down into the room.

Harry looked up at him, wordlessly. Dumbledore shook his head, and Ron saw that there were tears in the old man's eyes.

"We were just too late, Harry," he said, passing a hand across his own brow, and sitting next to the boy. "Theresa Powell took her own life. Of her own decision, it appears- rather than because of any compulsion implanted by Voldemort." Harry nodded, still shivering in that jerky, shocked way. Dumbledore's brow creased in pain, and he went on.

"Nicholas Powell died, as you warned me, from over-exposure to the Cruciatus curse. Janet Mirabel Powell, 12, died…" he hesitated a moment, but Harry grated,

"I know how she died."

Dumbledore buried his face in one hand for a moment, resting the other on Harry's shoulder. Harry's own head bowed.

"Why?" he spat it out.

Dumbledore spoke, his voice infinitely weary.

"Why them, or why does He act as he does?" He sighed. "In neither case can I say with any certainty, Harry. The Powells were cousins of a witch named Elsbeth Fetchborough- Minerva McGonagall is with her now," he drew back his hand, and Ron glimpsed tears running down the Professor's cheek. "They were her closest living Muggle relatives. I believe Voldemort was simply… trying to make a point." He shook his head. "Such a senseless waste…"

Harry rubbed his eyes fiercely.

"Another tick in another box," he said to no one in particular. "I'll add it to the reckoning." Dumbledore drew away from him slightly, and looked Harry in the eye, his face troubled.

"Don't believe that you must fight this battle alone, Harry," he said. Harry closed his eyes, and nodded.

"Don't worry, Headmaster. I won't."

Harry knew why Voldemort had shown him that scene of carnage- not just out of sadistic delight, but because he was curious- curious as to how Harry's Occlumency had protected his mind thus far this summer, and hoping to break down his defences further, by attacking him through his emotions. Fear, hatred- it was all the same. That was, perhaps, the only crumb of comfort to be had- that if Voldemort was forced to resort to such obvious tactics to break into Harry's mind, then it was confirmation of Harry's hope that he was, in the main, succeeding in shutting him out. He redoubled his efforts, helped in some degree by a late birthday present from the Headmaster- a small gold pensieve to serve as a repository for thoughts too vulnerable or valuable to leave in his head as he slept. It wasn't infallible- Dumbledore had cautioned him that he was still a year or two too young to master a pensieve properly, but that he felt that Harry's gifts were strong enough that he might make some use of it- as indeed he had. It had helped him- both to guard his thoughts from Voldemort, and to allow him to re-examine many of his past actions more objectively. Yet still the strength of his anger terrified him.

He'd told the others about his nightmare- eventually, after they had waited several days wondering why he had so suddenly shut them out, sitting alone in his room. Then, as before, they'd rallied round him, and continued the work on the oath. True, it was only one step upon the road, but as Harry told them, he didn't feel able to even start fighting Voldemort until it was safely behind him. He did not tell them of the silent fear that now grew in his heart- that perhaps it was only the darkness that he feared that could match the Dark Lord.

* * *

It was two days before the end of August- and three before their return to Hogwarts for his, Ron, and Hermione's sixth year, and Ginny's fifth, when Hermione led them once again up to Sirius' room after breakfast. Harry stopped on the threshold in surprise. The bed had been pushed out of the way, the windows covered with black drapes, and the floor now resembled the sort of magic late-night horror movies he'd seen in the past warned one to be wary of. An eight pointed-star some five feet in diameter had been drawn on the oak floorboards in white chalk, with a curious red-and-white dust sprinkled over the lines. Hermione had explained that this was powdered unicorn horn mixed with powdered dragon blood. At each point of the star, there lay a knife, and the skull of an animal, and in the middle, the book from the Grimmauld Place library lay opened on the floor.

Harry, Ron, and Ginny looked round warily.

"Are you sure about this, Hermione?" Ron grimaced, stirring the skull of a rat with his foot. "This lot practically reeks of the Dark Arts." He shuddered.

"It's the best I can make it," Hermione explained. "It's not really dark magic, but it is old." She moved the skull back to its correct placing. "The spell itself is almost two thousand years old- it was old even when it was written down… but it says what we need it to say."

"Let's get this over with quickly," Ginny shivered. "Before Mum or Remus finds us."

Ron and Harry nodded, and took places at opposite corners of a notional square, standing between two points outside the star, where Hermione indicated. She and Ginny then stood at opposite points, to complete the square. All four, at Hermione's instruction, had dressed in shirts and t-shirts which left their arms mostly bare to the shoulder. When the older witch had satisfied herself that she could read the spell book from where she was standing, she looked at each of them in turn.

"Take the arm of the person next to you," she instructed. "As near to the shoulder as you can, so that your arms are doubled and you are joined… like links in a chain, it says here." Harry reached out an arm and touched her shoulder with his fingers, and she responded in kind. Ron did the same, both to Hermione and his sister. Then, Harry linked arms with Ginny.

"Are we all four dedicated to this course?" Hermione looked round at them. "For know that this oath shall reign over us for as long as all those that swear do live, and cannot be lightly put asunder."

"Can't we have the modern translation?" Ron moaned, and then, seeing Hermione's dangerous expression, quickly added, "Yes, yes, I am."

"Whatever it takes." Ginny gave Harry's arm a comforting squeeze.

Harry hesitated. This was the only path back to sanity he'd seen for himself, but now, on the brink, awful thoughts grew in his mind. Was he being selfish? Perhaps the Unforgivable Curses were the only way he would ever be able to defeat Voldemort. In which case, forswearing them so absolutely just for the sake of his peace of mind, might doom them all. He tried to imagine how he might feel at the end, if the Killing Curse was the only thing that stood between Voldemort and killing- perhaps killing Ron, or Ginny, or Hermione. The black anger that rose in him at the thought answered the question, and he looked up, eyes glinting. Then he remembered Janet Powell, screaming as the knife her mother held bit into her flesh. He remembered screaming his hatred of Voldemort into the monster's skull, remembered Voldemort's exulting laughter. Harry remembered how that had made him feel, remembered his fingers itching to seize his wand, to make the Dark Lord feel the pain he dealt out so freely. He knew how easy it would be to give into that hatred, and more, he knew with burning certainty that, if he were to do that, to accept the loss of his own soul as the price for defeating Voldemort, then he _could _win… but the price? Voldemort might revel in carnage, but, at the heart of it, he had been a sixteen-year old boy who hated the Muggles who had abandoned him, and who wanted to escape the chains of normality. Harry blinked once.

"He should never have started using them in the first place," he grated. "We're going to defeat him, and we're going to do it _without_ the Unforgivable Curses."

"And I am determined, and stand by all of you in this," Hermione finished, and then went on, in a more normal tone of voice. "Now, all of you, whatever I ask next… however odd, or silly, just do it. No silly comments," she fixed Ron with a look, "Until it's over. I don'twant to find out what would happen if we miscast this. Step into the point of the star immediately to your right," she continued, and the four, arms still linked, sidestepped to the right, and into the star.

He felt the change at once. Four people, linked at the arms, somehow became one person with four bodies and four minds. He could hear their thoughts, their dreams, and they could hear his, whispering in their ears. They looked around at one another in wonderment, as their minds stood for a moment naked to one another. Something seemed to flow between them, echoing, bubbling like water and shining like light… except that it was not something he saw with his eyes. Or heard with his ears, although as he listened he seemed to see it, but when he tried to look at it it was a sound which he heard.

Hermione had been terrified of witches and evil wizards in fairy tales as an infant, he saw, and had thrown herself into sensible achievement to try to quiet her over-active imagination. When her Hogwarts letter had come, the eleven-year old Hermione had been petrified, convinced secretly, for all her outward confidence, that these wizards were monsters, who would do terrible things to the human girl they had tricked into thinking was one of them. Then he saw the moment that nightmare faded, when Hermione suddenly realised that witches and wizards were just people- good and bad, when she stepped into a carriage on the Hogwarts' Express and saw that two of the fairy tale creatures she was to go to school with were just two silly schoolboys.

Ron's family were- everything- to him. Harry had known that, of course, but an only child who had grown up only knowing relations as bullies who happened to live under the same roof, he had not felt it, understood it emotionally until now. More than friendship, more than love itself, they were his world- and Ginny, the only one ever young enough to need his protection, had his loyalty to and beyond the end of the Earth.

Ginny had grown up in a world freed from Voldemort's terror- and in a loving home, and had refused to compromise on what the world should be, and never taken 'the way things are' as a satisfactory answer. She wanted to seize the Ministry by the scruff of the neck and shake sense into it, and that merely for starters. Her dearest wish was to one day spend a day and a night half-asleep on a cloud, above a beautiful countryside bathed in golden sunlight.

Harry was alone,

and he realised with a shock that he was, in some way, thinking with a mind not his own, looking in upon himself.

_He loved his friends like the family he'd never known, but still, even now, after all this time, questioned what he could possibly have done to have earned their friendship. _

He saw the scars the Dursleys had left on his mind, even now, even after all these years, and hated them in his heart. Then his friends' thoughts surrounded him, buoyed him up, lifted him away. _We are stronger together than apart._

"Commencia," Hermione spoke formally. She had the same, slightly lost look in her eyes as the other three, but focussed through it on to the book on the floor in front of her, and began to speak. "We are met together in common bond and common purpose, held by friendship no greater or lesser than friendship should be, to forswear and abhor that which is abominable to us, and which we wish should forever remain apart from our souls and actions. Protego," she murmured, and a shield charm of sorts grew up about them. "Intra vectis expel kedavros, expel Cruciatus, expel imperius." Harry felt the atmosphere tilt about them, and saw the sweat beading on Hermione's brow. Then his spine tingled, and he felt her magic reaching along his arm, drawing out his power, binding it to strengthen the oath. Next to him, he felt Ginny tense, and knew that the oath was doing the same to her.

He could feel it. The dark magic writhed within him, tempting him- and suddenly he was gone.

Smoke and soot everywhere about him, the schoolboy hurried through the crowded station. On platform eight, with a great rush and whistle of steam, a massive apple-green steam engine took up the strain and began to haul a long train of pale wood panelled coaches. Harry blinked in confusion at the name 'Flying Scotsman'. Surely that wasn't the Hogwarts' express? No, there were Muggles everywhere, and it was the wrong platform- but why were they all dressed so strangely? He leant against the wall to clear his head, and pushed back his cloth cap. Above him, the station clock ticked its stately way towards ten to eleven.

He shouldn't even be here. The train was three days away. He should be still in that room, in Sirius' room… unless something had gone wrong with the spell? He pushed himself away from the wall and looked around at the people. Steam trains. Not just the express, but all the trains. The people. Dark suits, long brown skirts, fur stoles and capes. Station staff everywhere. Harry reeled. He didn't understand. Where was he? When was he?

Dumbledore would know. Harry looked around himself, tried to orientate himself in this strange new, old Kings' Cross station, and, half pulling himself along the brickwork, made his way in the direction he believed would lead to platform nine and three quarters. It was the twentieth century, so he would be able to talk to Dumbledore at Hogwarts. That was the only way. It had to be the day of the Hogwarts Express. It had to be.

It was five to eleven. He struggled to platform nine. No one there. Harry remembered his first trip, remembered looking round, lost, confused, believing it was all a gigantic hoax. There was no platform nine and three quarters. Now that queer chimeric platform seemed the only certain thing left in his life.

"Excuse me, sir?" He looked round, startled. "Are you a wizard, sir?" Harry stared at that, and then realised that he was carrying an owl cage. True, the owl inside was a grumpy tawny, and not his own Hedwig, but it was an owl, none the less. He looked around again, and then down. A small boy, tear streaks through his grimy face, looked up at him hopefully. Harry looked questioningly down at him.

"A wizard?" he stalled. "Er, why?"

"The letter said I was a wizard, sir," the boy pleaded. "It said I had a school I could go to. The orphanage only lets me go to school in the mornings, sir, and I have to come home at night." the boy screwed up his eyes, trying not to cry. "The other boys don't like me, and they said I was strange and evil," the boy swallowed, "and the chaplain said I was in league with the devil because one time the manager hit me for answering back and I looked badly at him and he got a stomach upset, sir. I'd love to be a wizard and go away from all of them, sir!" Harry looked round. The story was so like his own. He began to wonder then, but the sight of the clock above their heads brought him sharply back to what was currently claiming to be the present.

"If you want to be a wizard, we'll have to be quick," he said, and grabbed the eleven-year old by the hand. "Come on," he smiled, and dragged the boy through the barrier, and out on to platform nine-and-three-quarters. The boy screamed in surprise, and then stared around, pop-eyed.

"That's magic!" he shouted, seeing the new train, with steam up and ready to go, and all the wonderful magical folk climbing hurriedly aboard.

Harry grinned at him. "It is. Come on, let's find you a seat." He started to walk, but his legs wouldn't move. The boy looked confused, but any panic seemed to drain away out of Harry. He wasn't meant to board the train. Whether this was dream or reality didn't seem an issue- it was neither, he felt, but he knew that he was being guided. He looked back at the boy.

"Don't worry, I'll follow on later. Go on, find a seat. You'll be fine. Oh, by the way," he added, as the boy let go of his hand uncertainly. "I'm Harry Potter. Hope school goes well for you."

"Thank you, sir, thank you Harry," the boy bubbled, his eyes suddenly coming alight with joy. "I shan't have to go back to the orphanage, thank you!" He flung himself back at Harry, enfolding him in an excited hug. Harry's wand was half knocked from his pocket and he grabbed it before it could fall to the ground, as the boy released him. "I'm Tom," the boy was practically dancing now. "Tom Riddle. Are you sure you don't want to get on the train with us?"

"YOU!" Harry's bestial snarl knocked the boy back, and he fell hard on his behind, as with a whistle, the train pulled out of the station, leaving them alone on the platform. He strode- his legs suddenly free again- towards the now-terrified child, covering him with his wand. "You vicious bastard!" Harry's lip curled. "You'll never do it to them! Never!"

"Please, Harry!" Tom screamed. "I don't want to die! I don't want to go back to the orphanage again! Please, I don't want to die!"

"Avada…"

The clock was ticking, but although Harry remained sure that no more time passed between one tick and the next, the sound was changing, growing hollow. He fixed his eyes on the child.

"I don't want to die!" Harry was struggling to draw breath past the lump of raw hate in his throat. He couldn't talk, couldn't do anything but kill the monster… but he didn't want to be a killer. The hate would make this child do so much.

"Avada…" More than the hate. He could hear the spell in his ears, feel it crying out to him to release the black burning in his heart and throat.

"Save us, Harry," a voice called. A woman's voice, firm and fair. A voice he'd last heard in Snape's memories, half a year ago. "Save us from him!"

"He deserves it, Harry!" Sirius called. "Worse than that! Torture the creep, make him learn what it feels like!"

"Destiny, Harry. You have to kill Voldemort. Your mum and I knew that. I know it's hard to kill, son, but you have to stop him. The hate is the only weapon you have."

"No, Dad…" Harry put his other hand on his wand. "Hate's the only weapon he's got, not me.. It doesn't… it doesn't matter who's the Dark Lord." He looked at Tom. "Get out of here. Now! Be whatever you're going to be… but I won't give in!"

"You must, Harry." Dumbledore's voice, calm, reasonable. "The burden is terrible, but none would blame you."

"Harry!" Ginny, calling to him. "You aren't Tom. You know you aren't. You don't need the darkness."

"Ignore them," Sirius snarled. "Tear his throat out. He killed me. He killed James and Lily. Doesn't he deserve a bit of pain in return."

"Yes!" Hermione shouted, and she and Ginny and Ron were standing between Harry and Tom, their eyes ablaze with light. "Voldemort deserves to receive pain, but we do not deserve to have to give it."

"I reject the darkness, the darkness is alone. We stand together in light. One stands together where all stand together. We shall weather the storm, conquer the darkness with the dawn, but we shall not go down into shadow!"

Then it was gone. Harry staggered, and found himself supported against Ginny and Hermione's arms. All four seemed to be wearing similar expressions of shock, or horror- and all four would have fallen, had they not slumped against one another's bracing strength and remained standing.

"We are one, and one shall remain," Hermione intoned, more than a little shakily, and the magic ebbed and flowed with her words. "And those that break this pact shall spread the suffering of that which they wreak among their friends, for we do take on the responsibility and care of one another. Should one transgress, the penalty is for all. Kedavros, Cruciatus, Imperius, Unis." As she spoke each forbidden word, Harry felt a twist in his heart, a strange and unfamiliar pain, and saw in the faces of the others that they felt it too.

Hermione took a step forward, bending her elbows as she did so, forcing the other three to keep pace. They were close against one another now, in the inner square of the eight-point star, and Hermione looked at each one in turn. "Unis," she repeated, and then, in a low voice. "We must show that we are one." She stretched her head forward towards Harry, and pursed her lips. He blinked, somewhat startled, and was rewarded by an impatient look from Hermione. What was that she'd said about following her lead, never mind how odd something might seem? He pursed his own lips and moved to meet her- only just in time noticing her amused raised eyebrow. He drew back slightly, and she bowed her head slightly, indicating for him to do the same. He did, and she kissed him once, lightly, on the forehead. The contact was like a confirmation of the bond. Something seemed to bind itself around his mind in that moment- but it was like a colour, a flag or proud symbol of allegiance, not a chain. For an instant, even the bond that had been created between the four when they stepped into the star was as nothing. For one moment, he knew everything that there was to know about Hermione Granger, and then- it was gone, and she had bowed her own head.

Harry stretched forward, and kissed her in turn. He could feel his thoughts moving, sifting, and realised that Hermione had just received as much knowledge about Harry, as he had just learned about her.

As he moved back, Hermione glanced quickly between Ginny and Ron, and they leant into the space the other two had occupied, exchanging an easy, caring, familial kiss from one forehead to the other, and again. Then, as soon as Ginny had drawn back, Hermione herself leant forward and kissed Ron on the forehead, bringing a scarlet flush to his cheeks. Glancing in rather foolish embarrassment towards Harry and his little sister, Ron kissed Hermione in the same way.

Hermione's pressure on his arm steered him, and Harry became aware that he was being 'aimed' at Ginny. Panic and amusement flickered over her face in repeated succession, and, Harry imagined, probably did the same on his. He found himself desperately remembering things that he wouldn't like Ginny to know about him- specifically, his rather silly romantic little daydream on the afternoon they'd sat together in Diagon Alley. Still, he realised, she had more to lose than he had. Her embarrassment over her 'crush' was legend in her family, and even if she had been able to make light of it recently, the thought that he would be able to go over all those memories must be deeply horrifying to her. He wished there was someway he could tell her that she didn't need to worry- that whatever she'd thought and dreamed, he'd think none the less of her for it- and then he realised that there was. He kissed her forehead first.

Ginny drew back, her eyes wide for a moment, and then settling into a look of determination, as the brief flash of memory faded. As Harry bowed his head, she kissed him.

In later months, Harry would have given several good limbs to have been able to remember what was revealed to him in that one instant of time, but now, even as the memory slipped away, Hermione and Ginny exchanged a light sisterly peck on the forehead, and then Ron was firmly directed in front of Harry.

The atmosphere of filial and agape love, mutual compassion, and unquenchable friendship amongst the four was, perhaps, _slightly_ spoiled by Ginny's amused snigger a couple of seconds later, but Ron and Harry were both too embarrassed to notice. Ron managed to produce a wet smacking sound as he kissed Harry's forehead, and turned almost purple. Harry fixed his mind firmly on a talking hedgehog he'd just imagined, and returned the kiss. Then, as they in turn separated, each one of the four felt their vocal chords move in unison.

"Thus, we swear. Joined till time's end or life's final gasp, by these principles shall we lead our lives."

There was a moment of vertiginous tumbling. Harry saw that odd, past-time King's Cross again for a moment- and then he was standing by a pool of water, and Ron was staring up at a masked Death Eater who held in his arms someone who was somehow Ginny, and Molly, and Fred, and George, and Bill, and all of his family, even Percy, and dead. Then, with a giddy suddenness, he was standing in the Chamber of Secrets, and Ginny was holding the diary. Then Professor Umbridge leered over him, madness alight in her eyes, and threatened death to all half-humans.

It was over. Suddenly, and with a harshness that made Harry almost cry out as the comforting sense of 'one-ness' was taken away from them, and they were simply four teenagers standing among the points of a chalk-and-powder star. Except that they were not. As they released each other's arms, Harry was aware that, in another way, he could not release his grasp, and neither could any of the others. He looked into their eyes and saw himself. He remembered the dream that was not a dream, and felt the terrible hatred again… but then felt something stronger than hatred reach out, and lift him away from it.

He would fight. He might even kill.

But he would kill to save those he loved and wished to keep alive,

Not to damn those he hated and wished dead.

Each of the four sought for something to say.

"If anyone, meaning Malfoy, ever, _ever_ hears I kissed Harry," Ron croaked, "then I'll destroy the world, I hope you all know that."

Hermione grimaced at him.

"Is that all you can say?" she stared. "Is that honestly the most important thing you can talk about right now?"

Ron blinked, and looked intently at her for a moment.

"There's a lot more important to talk about, Mione. Almost everything's more important than that… but if you're asking about what I can actually talk about at this moment, then, yeah." He kept up the steady look for a moment longer, and then Hermione's face softened, and she nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Harry looked thoughtful.

"Is there a reason you couldn't tell us about all that beforehand?" he asked.

"Yes, actually," Hermione smiled happily, and mechanically began to pick up the various magical objects used in the spell. "The oath depends upon absolute trust to work. You had to trust me. All the rest was… well, just symbolism."

"You mean we didn't all have to kiss?" Ron exclaimed, and stuck out his tongue at Hermione, who looked sweetly at him.

"No, certainly not, Ronald," she smiled. He opened his mouth, but she continued, before he had a chance to speak. "Any other form of intense loving physical contact would have done the job just as well. Is there anything else you'd have rather done with Harry?"

Ron, wisely, shut up.

Harry, a little shakily, sat on the bed.

"Thank… thank you seems… well, it doesn't mean anything, not after that," he breathed. "I feel…"

"Thanks are irrelevant, Harry," Hermione pushed a wavy strand of hair out of her eyes. "We're in this together now. All of us."

Harry grinned at her. "One for all and all for one?" he suggested. She smiled.

"Yes, exactly, Harry. Just as always." She reached out and shook his hand. "Just in case we don't get another chance, I'm proud to know you, Harry James Potter."

"Likewise, Hermione Jane Granger." He turned to the others, and held out his hand to them. "Ronald Weasley, Virginia Weasley. You three are my family. You're more than that. Like Ginny said, the prophecy's wrong. Wrong or it doesn't matter. I'm going to meet Voldemort, because we've both heard that part of the prophecy. I don't know if _I_ can beat him or not… but that doesn't matter either," he looked each of them in the eye in turn, "Because when _we've _finished with him, he won't know what hit him."

* * *


	8. The Hogwarts Express

_Finally, the gang get to go back to Hogwarts. Not, of course, without meeting their ferret-chum along the way. _

* * *

**Chapter Eight: The Hogwarts Express**"No more wizards on the Underground till next July!" Harry exclaimed in glee as the four teenagers, and their honour guard- Moody, Tonks, and Molly, came up the steps and hurried across to the concourse at King's Cross station.

"Come off it, Harry, we did all right that time," Ron protested. Hermione shook her head despairingly, and juggled Crookshanks' basket into a more comfortable position. The honour guard, who were doubling as porters, followed on after, as Harry- pulling his own trunk, with Hedwig's cage on his shoulder, went into the bustle of the station. They quickly moved across to the little 'annexe' which held platforms nine, ten, and eleven. Many Muggles had been mystified for a long time as to why the station's tracks had been divided in this way, and had assumed that the annexe had been built later, so as to free up the main station building for the main East Coast Main Line high speed trains, while the annexe provided a place for the trains for branch routes like Ipswich or Kings Lynn. In fact, the main purpose of the annexe terminal was to allow for the additional thickness of wall, and a secondary set of track and points needed to allow for an invisible platform- and this is where the seven witches and wizards were heading. Along the way, they passed Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan, who were animatedly discussing Quidditch.

"Keep it down, you two," Moody admonished them by way of greeting. "The secrecy statute's there for a reason, you know." Harry and Ron rolled their eyes, and greeted their friends- a little frostily, in Ron's case, rather to Dean's confusion. Ron, in turn, was entirely bewildered when Ginny and Dean passed one another with an amiable nod of the head and 'hello'.

They separated at platform nine, not wanting to vanish through to platform nine and three-quarters in too large a group. In twos and threes, they went through the barrier, Harry and Moody last of all.

"Just a minute," Harry remarked, as they were about to go through. He'd spotted a small boy, hair plastered in an improbably immaculate shape, a large suitcase as big as he was propped next to him, looking around close to tears while his parents argued. He'd also distinctly heard the word 'Dumbledore'. Leaving Moody holding Hedwig, he slipped quickly across the platform towards the family.

"I told you it was nonsense, Gerald," the woman- a platinum blonde in a yellow cardigan and brown corduroy trousers sighed. "Witchcraft and wizardry, indeed. I don't know who this 'Dumblefore' is, but why we wasted the money coming up to London I don't know. Tim has to start secondary school- I mean real school, dear," she bent down to the child, and put a hand on his shoulder comfortingly, "… tomorrow, and why we even bothered reading that silly letter…"

"I want to be a wizard, Mum," Tim groaned. "The letter said I was."

"I just thought…" The man ran his hands through his thinning pate and looked harassed. "Well, look, you know as well as I do odd things happen around Tim. I know it all sounded absurd, but… well, owls delivering letters? This Dumblefore might have been able to answer…" he shook his head. "Well, we might as well make a day out of it, anyway."

"It's 'Dumbedore', actually." Harry grinned at them. The two adults stared at him.

"Are you 'Albert Dumble… sorry, Dumbledore?" the man asked. "Look here, about this letter…"

"No!" Harry laughed. "I'm just a sixth year. Albus Dumbledore's the Headmaster."

"Then there really is a school?" Tim stared at him, wide eyed. "Can I do magic? Can you do magic?"

Harry grinned, and looked around hurriedly. The platform wasn't crowded, and what people there were seemed to be in far too much of a hurry to pay attention. He cast his eyes around, and they lit upon a newspaper lying discarded on a bench about a yard away. Beckoning the family round, so that they might shield what was about to happen from any other Muggle eyes, he drew his wand.

"Wingardium Leviosa," Harry murmured, and the newspaper flipped up into the air and, as if buoyed up by the wind, bowled naturally enough along the platform a few yards before coming to a stop. Tim, and his parents, stood open mouthed and speechless. Harry, wordlessly, returned the wand to his pocket, and glanced at the clock. Five minutes to eleven.

"We'd better get moving," he said, noticing that Mad-Eye had already taken his luggage through on to the platform. He lifted Tim's case with one hand, and took the boy's hand with the other. Then he turned to the parents. "There's not really time to talk more now, sir, madam." He smiled. "The letter explains everything, if you read it believing it, and Tim will write to you in a couple of days, I should think." He grinned. "Nice to have met you, whoever you are. Now…" he steered the small boy towards the pillar dividing the platforms. "Prepare for a shock, and hope the barrier's not been fiddled with by any well-meaning house-elves, or prepare for a bang on the head as well." They set off at a run.

* * *

As the whistle blew, the compartment door was wrenched open, and Harry fell in, followed by Hedwig's cage and his trunk. The train was already beginning to move as he reached out and closed the door, and turned round, grinning, to face his friends. 

"Well," Hermione remarked, "That was cutting it a bit fine, Harry."

"Sorry," he settled into a seat in the corner as the train puffed out of King's Cross. "I had to show a first year to his carriage- did you know they're seating them separately this year? There's an Auror with them. Looks like Dumbledore's not taking any chances."

"He isn't," Ron said fervently. "I caught a glimpse of the train driver while we were waiting for you to show up. That beard of his'll be black by the time we get to Hogwarts."

"Dumbledore's driving the train?" Harry gaped. The other three nodded.

"I don't think he wants to take his eye off the students for a minute," Hermione told him. "And you can't blame him, really, with all that's been happening."

"I don't," Harry smiled. "I'm just hoping Snape's not pushing the refreshment trolley." Ginny giggled at that.

"Any sign of Neville or Luna?" Harry asked.

"They were on the platform," she told him, "But I think Neville went to sit with Dean and Seamus, and Luna wandered off somewhere while we were waiting for you."

Harry nodded. "I'll catch up with them both later." He sighed. "It's weird to think I'll only be doing this one more time."

"Knowing you," Ron put in, "You'll probably be the new Dark Arts teacher the year after next, and end up riding up every year."

"Harry, teaching at Hogwarts?" Ginny rolled her eyes. "Well, there go my NEWTS."

"Charming." Harry grinned.

They settled back in silence, watching as the urban sprawl of London gave way to open countryside, and the occasional slow-moving high speed trains were left behind, growing more and more infrequent as they moved out into the English countryside. After about an hour, in which they'd said very little, simply luxuriated in the shared delight at the return to Hogwarts, Hermione got to her feet.

"Come on, Ron," she said. "We need to get to the Prefects' carriage. It's not like we'll be new this year, there'll be a lot of work to get through." She fumbled hurriedly through her belongings for her badge, set it proudly on her lapel, and, gesticulating frantically at Ron to hurry up, scurried into the corridor.

"Well, mate…" Ron looked a little uncomfortable. "I suppose I ought to be going too… " he looked miserably at Harry. "It's going to be dead boring, you know that. A lot of Percys and Hermiones sitting round telling us-"

"Ron," Harry interrupted him. "You're right; you'd better go. If you're late, Hermione will never let either of us here the end of it."

"Right…" Ron got to his feet, and, still ill-at-ease, went out and along the corridor. Harry sighed, settling back in his seat.

"Does it actually bother you?" Ginny wondered. "Not being one, I mean?"

"Nah." Harry shrugged. "Well, I suppose, last year- well, you know what a prat I was being then."

She nodded.

"Hey, you're supposed to say 'No, you weren't that bad', or something like that."

"Gah! Harry, I almost turned you into a frog three times last year, we got so fed up with you. And that's from someone who fancied the pants off you till the summer before. Frankly, I'm amazed Ron didn't hex you into the middle of next week." Harry winced, and Ginny relented a little, grinning, "But at least it stopped us all thinking you're some kind of saint. Look at it that way."

"I'll try." He shrugged. "Saint Potter? _Don't _say that anywhere near Snape, I'd never hear the end of it."

Harry was looking out of the window- having just pointed out something strange he'd seen by the trackside to Ginny- when he heard the compartment door slide open behind him. Of course, it could be Ron and Hermione back, but, no. No, he knew full well who it was by the disdainful intake of breath he heard from Ginny. He didn't bother to turn round, but quietly checked that his wand was, as ever, ready to be quickly drawn into action.

"I could practically set a clock by you, Malfoy," he sighed. "Don't you actually have a life? You know, something you could be doing other than irritating me?"

"Touchy, Potter," the other boy drawled, clearly sounding annoyed at Harry's disdainful reaction. "Mind you, I suppose you wanted to be left alone with your girlfriend?"

"Get some new material," Ginny sniped in a bored voice.

"I wasn't speaking to you, Weaselette," Malfoy snapped. "At least, I think it's the Weaselette." Harry heard Crabbe and Goyle snigger- a sound rather like two toilets flushing in tandem. "Maybe Potter's so desperate after that slant-eyed yellow bitch dumped him that it's the Weasel in drag, but then, who'd know?"

Harry's fingers closed around his wand with the speed of a well-oiled machine, and he was about to turn, when Ginny's foot caught him hard on the ankle.

"No, Draco, not that I'm surprised you can't recognise a girl when you see one, but I am Ginny, actually," she purred. Then, in a voice like poisoned honey, she added. "Mind you, I forgive the mistake. After all, there isn't a female in the school who can look anything as much like a girl as you do, Malfoy."

"Why you…" There was no mistaking the loss of control in Malfoy's voice. Harry spun round, wand in hand, as Malfoy lunged for Ginny- who knocked his wand out of his hand and across the carriage with a swipe of her left hand, covering him with her wand hand at the same time.

"Get them!" Malfoy shouted, and Crabbe and Goyle lumbered forward from the doorway.

"Adheros!" Harry cursed their shoes, which immediately became an intrinsic and attached part of the carriage floor, while the two thugs struggled to free themselves. The notion of untying their shoelaces did not appear to occur to them. Ginny seemed to have Malfoy in a headlock by this time, and, wand temporarily abandoned, was spinning him round on the spot. Crabbe reached for her, and Harry, with an evil glint in his eye, cast anausea hex on each of Malfoy's immobilised thugs. Immediately, Crabbe's hands became fully occupied in holding his stomach and moaning, while casting desperate looks back into the corridor towards the toilet. Goyle was similarly occupied. Ginny abruptly let Malfoy go, and he crashed head first into one of the seats. The ferret-faced boy was on his feet straight away, having somehow retrieved his wand, and about to let fly a curse, when Ginny aimed her own wand at his midriff.

"Laxos," she cursed, and Malfoy gulped, and blinked. He stood very still for a moment, and then charged for the door, desperately fighting his way past the immobilised Crabbe and Goyle. Ginny flicked off another curse at him as he fled, although it didn't seem to have much effect. The moment he was gone, Harry released the other two's feet, and, clutching their stomachs, all three Slytherins scuttled down the carriage as fast as they could go. The two Gryffindors collapsed into their seats laughing.

"Does Laxos do what I think it does?" Harry spluttered. Ginny nodded.

"Oh yes…" she sniggered. "And I cast a slippery hex on his hands, so he might have a bit of trouble with the loo door in a hurry."

The duo rocked with laughter.

"You're an evil woman, Ginny Weasley," Harry chuckled.

Ginny smirked.

"Charmed, Mr Potter. If you keep flattering me like that I shall have to consider putting you back on my Valentine's card list."

"Argh!" Harry flung his hands up to protect his face in mock terror. "Pity, woman, pity!"

Ginny smiled sunnily.

"In fact, I don't think we've been paying you nearly enough attention lately, Harry. I probably should send you a card to welcome you back to school. Singing, of course. And then there's Halloween, and…"

Harry glared at her.

"Evil, evil, evil," he shook his head. "And my eyes are _not_ toad green, anyway. Sea-green, maybe."

"Toad," Ginny retorted. "And besides, I deny all responsibility for that singing Valentine's card. I was possessed by Voldemort at the time, remember." She raised an eyebrow at him. Harry blinked.

"That's your excuse, is it? It was Voldemort's idea?"

"That's my story, and I'm sticking to it."

"Ginny," Harry gulped. "Voldemort did not send me a Valentine's Card."

"Well, Harry," Ginny purred, sitting back in her seat. "I know what I know about what he was doing in my head that year, and…"

"Ginny," Harry said firmly, "Voldemort _did not send me a Valentine's Card._ We have to have that absolutely crystal clear here and now, or I will have to obliterate the universe." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Are we clear on this?"

"All right, Harry," Ginny bowed her head, and went on dutifully. "Voldemort did not send you a Valentine's Card."

"Thank you." Harry shook his head, laughing, and Ginny looked up.

"Tom hadn't started calling himself Voldemort when he put himself in the diary, so it was Tom Riddle that sent it."

"Ack!" Harry grimaced. "Stop it, you. Honestly, I'm scarred for life now." Even as he said it, he realised his mistake, as Ginny raised her eyes slightly.

"Yes… Harry, I think that's fair comment," she teased.

"Oh, low blow, Gin." Harry winced. "Well below the belt." Ginny, eyes sparkling, leant forward.

"He scarred you _down there _as well?" She fluttered her eyelashes quizzically. "Why, Harry, just what spell was Tommy casting on you when he did that?"

"Virginia Weasley, you are disgusting!" Harry spluttered. "I'm not having this conversation. This conversation falls under the Ministry Decree for the Restriction of Pure Evil." He looked sternly at her for several minutes, until her own smile had just started to fade. Then, as doubt crept into her expression, Harry remarked, in a deadpan tone of voice.

"Besides, I've always been more concerned about just what the sixteen-year-old Voldemort was doing in the girls' loos when he found the Chamber of Secrets in the first place."

A few moments later, Hermione and Ron opened the door to the compartment and entered, followed by Neville and Luna.

"What on Earth is going on in the toilet?" Hermione asked, shaking her head. "It sounds as if fifty elephants…" she stopped, staring at Ginny and Harry, who were still bent double laughing. Harry, drawing breath with some difficulty, delivered a punch line to Ginny.

"… and he'd only come in to chat up Moaning Myrtle!" The two burst into hysteria again. Ron sat down.

"What's so funny?" he enquired.

"Oh," Harry shook his head, eyes dancing. "You have to have been there, Ron…"

"Where?"

"Inside Voldemort's mind!" Ginny sniggered, and let loose a fresh peal of laughter. Ron and Neville looked at each other. Finally, Ron decided to take the only course of action that made any sense, and settled down to eat a packet of chocolate frogs while Harry and Ginny recovered some decorum and greeted Luna and Neville.

"I spoke to my Gran about the wand, Harry," Neville looked a bit uncomfortable. "She seemed really pleased- I'm using a practice wand now, but I can't do a thing with it… but look, is it all right, really? I mean, I don't want you to think I'm sponging off the Order or anything."

"It's fine, Neville," Harry told him. "We owe you, so it's not a question of a favour. I've packed the ones Mr Ollivander picked out. When we get up to Gryffindor Tower, you can go through them- in your own time, and find the right one."

He settled back to look out of the window. They were passing through the Scottish borders now, and it had begun to rain heavily. Harry breathed, fogging the glass. Somehow, come what may, come what had indeed come, the return to Hogwarts still excited him. A gentle nudge in his ribs made him look up from his reverie. Ginny gave him a mysterious look, and whispered,

"Look- it's rather sweet."

Harry looked over at the rest of the group. Ron was coming to the end of his packet of frogs, having handed several round the carriage. Now, he only had one left, and Harry noticed, with some bemusement, that opposite him, both trying to look as disinterested as they could, but at the same time exuding a deeply proprietorial air, Hermione and Luna were watching him. Ron was clearly aware of it, and also rather uncomfortable. Luna licked her lips. Hermione favoured Ron with a friendly smile. Ron gulped and, suddenly, saw a way out.

"Ginny!" he called, seeing his sister watching from over by the window. "Catch!" He threw the frog to her. She caught it, and ate it quickly, to stop herself passing comment on the thwarted expressions on the faces of the other two girls.

The rest of the journey passed by in similar fashion. In the game of Ron-tennis, Harry decided, Hermione and Luna were quite evenly matched, since they appeared to both be their own worst enemy. Hermione's skill at turning any reasonably civilised conversation with Ron into a battleground was unmatched- except by Luna's ability to kill a conversation stone dead with nonsense. By the time the towers of Hogwarts came into sight, and Harry and his friends had climbed from the train into the Thestral-drawn carriages which would take them from Hogsmeade station up to the school, he felt that he had heard all that he wanted to hear in a long time about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks.

On the bright side, as they disembarked from the train, and made their way through what was now driving rain towards the carriages, they heard a familiar voice calling,

"Firs' years! This way! Firs' years!" Harry had been delighted to see Hagrid again, and the two had promised to talk again soon. He was also pleased to note that Hagrid only bore a few bruises from his regrettable relative in the Forbidden Forest, and that those seemed light. Perhaps Grawp was calming down.

Once they drew up at the castle gates though, there was no time for reflection, as they were hurried into the Great Hall to take their places before the Sorting of the First Years. Harry found himself craning his neck around, counting heads. There were the Creeveys, excitedly talking to a trapped-looking Seamus. Then Colin scuttled up to Ginny and drew her away, animatedly gesticulating at what looked like a new camera. Harry gave her an amused glance, and turned to see Ron, Hermione, and Luna, talking about something. Behind them, Professor McGonagall entered with the Sorting Hat held by its ragged point, and coughed meaningfully, sending Luna scurrying over to her own table. As she went, she waved cheerfully to Ron, which made Hermione's eyes harden. To Harry's amusement, the Gryffindor witch seized Ron by the hand, and, dragging him, purple faced, past several of their classmates, sat down at the table. Harry chuckled- only to be on the receiving end of another meaningful look from McGonagall. He took his seat quickly, as the first group of first years nervously entered the Hall.

_"Gryffindor, bold Gryffindor,_

_Beloved in peace and valiant in war,_

_Ravenclaw, wise Ravenclaw,_

_Quick wit, sharp mind, none known more,_

_Hufflepuff, loyal Hufflepuff,_

_Hardworking, true-friend when times are rough,_

_Slytherin, cunning Slytherin,_

_Ambitious, never stops, all determined."_

The Hat warbled, much to most people's displeasure. Harry and Ron grimaced at each other.

"It's worse than ever," Harry groaned.

_"Where once was peace,_

_Now strife released,_

_Love abounded,_

_Joy resounded,_

_Now war is sounded,_

_All confounded._

_So must I choose,_

_E'en though we lose,_

_Yet caution I will,_

_Counsel even still."_

"It's angry," Hermione whispered. "That's why the song's so bad. Remember- last year it warned us?"

"Yeah, too late for us to do anything about it," Ron complained. "The war had already started."

McGonagall silenced them with a glare, and began beckoning the students forward. As Baker, Richard was sorted into Slytherin, Harry looked across the Hall and locked eyes with Malfoy. The blonde boy seemed to have recovered his composure after the incident on the train, and met Harry's look with cold contempt. Harry sighed.

"I think it's a bit late to do anything about the houses hating each other either," he murmured. "We've had a thousand years of it, and it'd take a lot for me and Malfoy to shake hands."

They sat back. Harry was pleased to see Pennyweather, Timothy- the boy he'd helped on the platform- sorted into Gryffindor. Then, at the high table, Dumbledore, clad in his usual resplendent robes- this time in royal blue, and with his snowy white beard showing no signs of his train journey, rose to his feet, and coughed once. The Hall fell silent.

"Thank you." The Professor smiled. "Welcome back, everyone. And welcome to the front of our new arrivals, as well." He beamed at the students. "We are here in troubled times, and I see no reason to trouble our stomachs with undue delay into the bargain, so I shall make the opening announcements of the year as brief as I may. Firstly, I would like to ask you all to give a warm welcome to Professor Aloysius Milner, who will be joining us as tutor for Defence Against the Dark Arts and Advanced Magical Theory in the new school year." To Dumbledore's right, a stout man in a Muggle black dinner jacket got to his feet, and waved cheerfully. He looked slightly overwhelmed by all the ceremony of a Hogwarts feast, and kept brushing his thinning brown hair back out of his eyes, even though it was nowhere near them. He murmured a few words to Dumbledore quietly, and then sat down. Dumbledore smiled.

"Professor Milner has asked me to assure you all that he is not the Dark Wizard Grindlewald- and I assure you," Dumbledore added, "I speak from personal experience that he is not, and nor is he a piece of cheese." He shook his head. "No doubt all will become clearer in due time. Now, on to other matters," he paused. "I would like to remind all students that the Forbidden Forest is out of bounds, at all times." Dumbledore stroked his beard for a moment, and then went on. "I say this merely as an exercise of the vocal chords, since it has become very evident in the last six years," he twinkled his eyes at Harry, "in particular, that for some reason the acoustics in this Hall will make it impossible for anyone to ever, ever, hear me explain that particular rule." A ripple of laughter went around some of the elder students, although both Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape looked slightly disapproving. Milner smirked.

"Continuing on the subject of rules, Mr Filch has asked me to remind you that the list of articles prohibited in the corridors has been, as usual, pinned up on the wall outside his office. I advise you to go and read it as soon as possible, before the accumulated weight of all sixty pages pulls the wall down. Now, eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we diet."

Gasps of surprise went around the first years as the tables were suddenly laden down with food. Harry took up his fork and, before beginning the feast, took one more look round the crowded Hall.

"Well," he remarked, "Here we go again."


	9. Breaking the Rules

_Introducing the new DADA teacher. Yes, he's meant to be annoying. The plot goes on hold this time, but something's waiting in the wings..._

* * *

**Chapter Nine:** Breaking the Rules

"I hope this Milner's all right," Ron managed, between mouthfuls of toast and marmalade, on the first morning after their return to Hogwarts. "Look at the timetable we've got for Dark Arts. Six times a week, and nine o'clock on Monday, Tuesday and Friday." He shook his head. "Nuts."

Harry grimaced.

"All right for you. I could do without Potions first thing on a Wednesday morning, myself."

"I still can't… mmph, sorry," Ron, belatedly, remembered to swallow, "I still can't believe you took NEWT Potions."

"Harry didn't really have any choice, if he still wants to be an Auror," Hermione muttered distractedly. She had caused knowing grins amongst most of the other Gryffindor sixth years by bringing a text book down to breakfast in the Great Hall on the first morning of term, but had hardly noticed.

"Yeah, but he's the only one in Gryffindor taking it, Mione," Ron pointed out. "I don't even think there are any Ravenclaws or Hufflepuffs there either." He shook his head. "Alone with Snape and a class of Slytherins. I don't envy you, mate."

Harry glared at him in mock anger.

"Well, thanks Ron, that makes it seem just _so_ much better. Git." He pushed his hair back. "It won't be that bad." Then he thought for a moment. "Who am I kidding? After what happened this summer, Snape'll probably just announce that the vital ingredient of the first potion's ground Harry Potter bone, hand out the pestles and mortars, and tell everyone to get on with it."

"Well then," Ginny remarked, sitting down with Neville and Clare Jacques, a fourth year Gryffindor, a few places further along, "You'll just have to transfigure Malfoy into a ferret, turn Snape into mucus, petrify the rest of the Slytherins, and then mark your own work for the rest of the school year. No one would notice." She gave an optimistic grin. "How d'you think I got as far as the fifth year in Arithmancy, anyway?"

"Look on the bright side, Harry," Hermione counselled. "Snape might not be so bad this year. You passed the OWL, remember. Maybe that will…" she trailed off. Harry was regarding her with wry amusement. "Ron's right," she finished. "You're doomed."

"Oh, come on!" Harry threw his legs over the bench and got to his feet. "Let's go and see what Milner's like, anyway. At least we're all still together for that one." He paused. "And I'll remember the 'Curse everyone' strategy, Gin. It's about the most positive advice I've had."

"Oh dear."

* * *

The students had found the Defence classroom door unlocked, with a small note affixed:

_Please Enter,_

_Good Little Pupil-flies._

_I will arrive shortly,_

_Yours,_

_Professor Spider._

Harry had led the group- a cross-section of sixth-years from all four Houses who had decided to carry on Defence to NEWT level- into the familiar classroom and watched as they sat down. This group made up about half the NEWT Defence Against The Dark Arts student body- as one of the more over-subscribed subjects, despite the disincentive of Professor Umbridge's teaching last year, the classes were split in two, generally along grounds of ability. He wasn't surprised to see that most of the DA members were present in this top class. In fact, it gave him a vaguely warm feeling about the neck and ears, which in turn rapidly made him feel a little silly. He became aware of Hermione looking at him.

"It's good to see so many of them got in the top class, isn't it?" she commented as the four of them- her, Ron, Harry, and Neville, sat down near the centre of the front row, and as far from Draco Malfoy and a small clique of Slytherins as they could possibly manage.

Almost as if pre-arranged, the moment all the students had settled in their seats, a cupboard in the corner of the room sprang open, and a shortish, stout man in a bright blue suit stepped out. All the students stood up. Professor Milner smirked at them.

"Och, d'ye no have pincushions on yer seats?" he enquired in a ludicrously artificial Scottish brogue. "Sit doon, lads an' lassies, sit doon," the accent shifted. "Arr, oi won't be 'avin' y'all standin' abut loike nine-pins, narr." The students, some sniggering, others looking rather irritated, sat down again. Milner walked slowly- and with a noticeable limp, Harry registered, to the front of the class and looked at them.

He was ugly. Not ugly in the dramatic and terrifying fashion of Mad-Eye Moody, or even in the toad-like countenance of Delores Umbridge, but ugly none the less. His eyes were a little too big for his square, heavy-jowled face, and had a tendency to blink in a watery fashion as he looked around the class. His nose would not have looked out of place on a caricatured Roman Emperor, although it was perhaps a touch too long for that, and hung over a narrow, slightly twisted mouth. The man's head jutted forward on a short neck from rounded shoulders, and his hands continually fidgeted with his wand. At first glance, Harry put him somewhere in his late forties, but he remembered that Remus had said he was a little younger than he was. Milner just looked older, and even, from the way he combed his thinning black hair to accentuate its sparseness and receding hairline, appeared to like it that way.

While he was studying Aloysius Milner, the Professor was also studying the class. For several moments, no one spoke, and then Harry became aware of Milner's gaze locking on his forehead. Hurriedly, he pushed his hair down, trying to cover his scar.

Professor Milner smiled, and the sunny openness of the look seemed to transform his face and take years off him- but it was only there for a moment.

"Good Morning, class," he said- and, drawing his wand, Banished his desk straight at Harry's head.

Harry didn't hesitate. A desk in the face was undesirable, but a hostile wizard still armed was far more dangerous.

"Expelliarmus!" he shouted, the disarming charm striking the Professor and knocking his wand flying, even as Harry braced himself for the impact.

"Reducto!" he heard from either side of him, and the desk shattered to fragments, flung back away from him by Ron and Hermione's spells.

"Protego!" this from Neville, and a shield sprang up around them. It was weak, a shield not really strong enough to protect more than one wizard spread over several, but it deflected several shards of wood.

"Stupefy!" Ernie Macmillan shouted, somewhere several rows behind. This and similar shouts followed. Milner, disarmed by Harry, attempted to dive after his wand, but, although he avoided Macmillan's Stunner, two caught him, one in the back, and one in the chest as the first's impact spun him round, and he fell like a poleaxed cow.

"Bloody Hell," Ron panted. "That's got to be a new record for turning evil quick." He shook his head. Harry and Hermione were advancing cautiously on the stunned teacher, wands in hand, most of the rest of the class covering them. When they were five feet away, Harry motioned to Hermione to stop, and crept forward alone, kneeling by the body. Slowly, keeping his wand trained on Milner's face the whole time, he opened the Professor's jacket and felt for a heartbeat. Satisfying himself, he was about to withdraw his hand when he noticed something. A small note, pinned to Milner's inside breast pocket. Slowly, he removed it, and, moving a safe distance away, unfolded it. A look of deep irritation crossed his features, and he beckoned to Ron and Hermione.

"My dear students,

If you are reading this, I am unconscious, don't you know. Well done. Ten out of ten, and five points to every student who fired off a curse while I was still conscious.

"I don't believe it." Harry practically seethed.

"You mean it was a trick?" Ron spluttered. "A test?"

Ten points to every student whose curse actually hit me. Five bonus points to anyone who used a really interesting hex that'll take Madam Pomfrey a while to put right… and if I'm dead, well, call it quits, all right? If I'm not dead, please revive me so we can get on with the lesson."

Hermione groaned.

"What an appallingly stupid thing to do," she snapped, and stomped across to Milner's body. "Enervate," Hermione rapped out, more brusquely than she'd ever spoken to a teacher in her life, and Milner sat up.

"Thank you, Miss Granger," he smiled. Then he paused. "Ow."

"We might have killed you!" Hermione stood over him, her face flushing red. "Are you mad? Don't you realise how dangerous it is to attack a group of wizards?"

"Ease off, Hermione," Ron, looking rather startled, took her by one arm. For Hermione to talk back to a teacher was rare enough, but this… To his surprise, Milner grinned at her.

"As dangerous as tackling a herd of Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries, perhaps, Miss Granger?" he asked, in a very quiet voice. Hermione froze. Milner scrambled to his feet.

"You're quite right, of course," he addressed the class. "Bloody stupid thing to do… but it made a point. You're sixth years now. You're powerful, you're strong, you're all bad-asses… but you can be the naughtiest donkeys in the world, and it won't do you a damned bit of good if you don't have some grasp of strategy. Now, forgive me if I make a few mistakes- I was busy being well and truly zapped into next week during the 'practical', but as far as I saw, Mr Potter realised in approximately a quarter of a second that I was the threat, not the desk, and so he cast his curse at me, while bracing for impact… in the unlikely- if you have studied any reports of his friends' activities- event that one or both of them didn't stop that impact from happening." Milner leant against the blackboard.

"Very good teamwork. Very good indeed. Then, the whole lot of you attacked. Of course, that wasn't a perfect strike- you should have co-ordinated a bit more, hemmed me in so that, even if I'd been more agile than I look, which I'm not, then I wouldn't have had anywhere to go… but for a spur-of-the-moment defensive manoeuvre, that was really quite brilliant." He beamed at them. "Congratulations, I'm terribly pleased. Now, please, everyone sit down… again."

Harry remained standing, while Hermione and Ron- the former still bristling somewhat, made their way back to their seats. After a moment, Milner regarded him with mild curiosity.

"Something wrong, Mr Potter?" he asked.

"I was just wondering if you'd mind being used as a test for another spell, Professor," Harry grated, levelling his wand at the Professor. "Revelos Morsmor!" A spur of white light flashed from the wand, and bathed Milner for a moment in a soft halo. The Professor smiled, after a brief start, and made a show of a rather overdramatic twirl, holding up his arms and rotating on the spot. The light died. Harry frowned, and went back to his seat.

"Ten points to Gryffindor," Milner remarked, to an audible groan from Draco Malfoy. "You don't take things at face value, Mr Potter, and you've remembered an exceedingly useful spell. I'm impressed _and_ flattered, since I happened to write that spell… but I also know that it isn't infallible." He pulled a spare table into the place left by the shattered desk, and started taking files and folders out of the cupboard. "A wily enough Death Eater can conceal the magical signature of the Mark… and a powerful enough one can even use that connection to deliberately link your mind to that of You-Know-Who."

Been there, done that,

Harry thought.

Milner sat down at his improvised desk.

"So, really, I'm afraid you'll have to take it on trust that I don't work for Voldemort."

The class jumped. Milner's eyes glinted.

"Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort." He chanted. "Funny, I wondered if you'd all jump three times. It's just a name." Then his eyes fixed on Harry again. "After all, would it make any difference if I chanted 'Tom', or 'Dick', or 'Harry'?"

Hermione held up a hand.

"Yes, Miss Granger, with a due sense of exhaustion and dread," Milner murmured.

Hermione's eyes narrowed, but she went on anyway.

"Does that mean that you're a Muggle-born, Professor?" she asked. Milner blinked, and looked down at himself.

"What, wasn't the suit enough of a giveaway?" he asked. "Actually, nope. Pure-blood back five generations." He lifted his gaze, and met Draco Malfoy's eyes. "Probably terribly inbred, but remarkably not a congenital idiot." He flicked his gaze back to Hermione's just in time to see the flicker in her eyes. "Half a point from Gryffindor, Miss Granger, for attempting to telepathically insult a teacher."

"You can't deduct half a point," she gaped. "The system doesn't work like that…"

"And another half-point for attempting to correct a teacher," he concluded, with a grin. "Oh, and five points _to_ you for your enduring fifteen minutes of a lesson with the most annoying teacher you've ever met without resorting to further violence."

Hermione massaged her forehead in a pained sort of way.

"Now then," Aloysius Milner rubbed his hands together. "Where shall we start?" He opened a folder and pulled out a scroll. "I've been trying to acertain what sort of level you've all achieved so far- since, frankly, an OWL is a good guide to a mouse hole but a poor guide to a student, so I would have preferred to go by your old Professors' notes." He paused, and looked down at the scroll- more for effect than anything else, Harry suspected.

"Unfortunately, these aren't terribly comprehensive in most cases. Kevin Quirrell appears to have kept copious amounts of paperwork… but he keeps arguing with himself. As for Gilderoy Lockheart… oh dear," he passed a hand over his brow. "Well, other than a number of wholly irrelevant observations on some of the female students in the higher years at the time, he appears to have graded students entirely on their admiration for him. Remus Lupin kept extremely precise and copious notes- yes, it's a pity he had to leave, poor man," Milner sighed, and Harry found his hostility to the man softening a bit, "But some ha… some person from the Ministry seems to have sequestered them, and the same for Alastor Moody's writings."

Then he paused. His mouth twitched, and he glanced up at the class.

"Now I need a bit of help. I'm having some difficulty in reading your notes from last year." He held the scroll at arms' length. "Awful childish handwriting… this Professor…" he paused, and then essayed, "Can't quite make out the name… looks like… Professor Dumb Bitch?"

A snigger ran unsurpressed around the class this time, and even Hermione choked slightly. Ron, his face scarlet, raised a hand.

"That would be D. Umbridge, sir," he gasped out, grinning. Milner nodded.

"Ah, Delores, the Minister's Undersecretary…" he smiled, contentedly. "Oh, that's good, I thought I'd read her name wrong for a moment… but I see I was absolutely right."

After a moment, in which the class attempted to settle themselves, Milner went on.

"Well… well, well… so, the total stands at two Death Eaters, one moron, a confirmed werewolf, and an undoubted hag." He looked round the class incredulously. "This place certainly _should_ have taught you about facing the Dark Arts all right."

Suddenly, he drew his wand again. Almost every other wand in the classroom swivelled to aim at him. Milner paused, watching with one raised eyebrow, and, when people had calmed their nerves, aimed his wand at the parchments on his 'desk'. "Vios briefcase," he muttered, and the folders and parchment flew through the air to a small open briefcase in the cupboard. He stood up. "Accio chalk." Then he strolled over to the blackboard.

"Now, pens out, wands away."

A groan of disbelief went round the class. Milner waited a moment, and then rapped out;

"I said pens out, wands away." He turned on his heel to face them. "Now."

Slowly, reluctantly, the students did as they were told, and Milner leant back against the board.

"Now, demonstrate your best shield charms."

Somewhat swore. Several people protested loudly. Milner held up a hand.

"You can't? Why? Because you've put your wands away. Now, here's your first question. Why can't you cast a spell without your wand, Mr Malfoy?"

Draco glared at him.

"The wand's a conduit for your magic," he muttered sulkily.

"And?"

Malfoy just glared at him.

Milner sighed.

"A conduit and a focal point," he told them. "Anyone ever tried to Summon their wand?" Several hands- including Harry's, went up.

Professor Milner nodded.

"Good. Most of you probably succeeded. Most of you probably didn't even register that that's a piece of wandless magic, largely because the wand is involved. Now, another thing you may not have noticed is that, when you summon a wand, you feel a slight tug towards the wand. That's because the magic, in that case, is still being focussed through the wand. It won't work if the wand's particularly far away, of course, but, because of the special nature of wands… which those of you taking my Advanced Magical Theory class will be going into in a lot more detail… it's a peculiar exception to the general rules about the impracticability of wandless magic. It's also a life-saving one. Remember our little disagreement at the start of the lesson? I was stunned while diving to retrive my wand. Now, in that case, it wouldn't have made any odds- my chances of avoiding _all_ your Stunners were almost non-existent… but in one-on-one combat, if you had cast a successful disarming charm, and wanted to know where to direct your Stunning spell- or your Killing Curse, if you're a particularly unpleasant chap, where would you aim, Mr Weasley?"

"Well, uh, where the wand was," Ron realised, with a sudden grin. "Where the wizard you were fighting was going to have to dive to get it back."

"Precisely!" Milner grinned back at him. "Never, if you can help it, try to grab a dropped wand. It makes you an exceedingly obvious target, and even your average Death Eater isn't thick enough to miss an opportunity like that. Summon it." He looked around. "Split into pairs, I think, and practice a few small scale duels, just to see how you get on with that. Oh, and first… wands out again, of course."

* * *

"He's a nutter." Ron had said as much three times so far over lunch, and this was the fourth.

"A teacher should show a bit more maturity in front of the students," Hermione sniffed. "It's all very well for us to say- and think- those things about Umbridge and the others, but teachers are supposed to remain above that sort of thing- at least, in public."

Harry shook his head.

"He was testing us. The whole way through." He frowned. "He wanted to see how we'd react to him behaving strangely… and he wanted to drop several hints at me, too. Did you catch that 'Tom, Dick, or Harry' thing?" He considered. "Actually, Hermione, I like him. When he stopped being an idiot and started teaching, he was pretty good. Not as good as Remus," he added loyally, "But he knew how to make things interesting, and he did actually start on some useful training." He reiterated. "I like him. I don't trust him though." He stopped, as Ginny and Luna walked up, fresh from their own Dark Arts class.

"You've just had Milner, haven't you?" he asked. "What did you make of him?"

Ginny pondered.

"It's hard to tell, really." She shook her head. "I got the feeling he was a lot cleverer than he wanted us to tell."

Luna, on the other hand, was smiling happily.

"Oh, Uncle Aloysius?" she asked. "He was lovely, just like he always is."

"He's your uncle?" Ron's mouth dropped open. Luna laughed, and shook her head.

"No, not really, but he's been a friend of my father's for a very long time," she told them, and sat down, pouring a thin layer of gravy on to her sandwiches. "Aloysius is one of father's favourite writers for the Quibbler, didn't you know?"

Ron, Harry, Ginny, and Hermione looked at each other. Finally, Harry nodded.

"You're right, Ron," he said gravely. "He is, without doubt, a nutter."

* * *

_Strifestrike- I agree entirely about Chapter 7 (mkI) You might notice a lot of changes to it now. I was going for understated, but ended up with 'barely there'. I came back to it after a day or two away, and thought 'urgh'. The moral of the story, for me, is to give myself a 'cooling off' period between writing and posting something, I think. Anyway, hope the new version 'fits' a bit more. _


	10. Potions and Preparations

**Chapter Ten:** Potions and Preparations

"Post's here." Hermione stroked Hedwig's head affectionately, as up and down the breakfast table, students were receiving their Wednesday morning letters.

"Mm." Harry continued to mechanically chew on a slice of toast. Hedwig, tired of being ignored, and finding Hermione's attentions beginning to pall, sought entertainment elsewhere.

"Hi!" Ron shouted in indignation. "Harry, get your bird's beak out of my porridge!"

"Mm." Harry frowned to himself. Ron snatched his bowl away. Hedwig strutted pointedly on to his placemat and clicked her beak at him meaningfully. She fixed him with a golden eye, and- Ron swore afterwards- drummed her talons on the table.

"Harry, Earth to Harry!" Hermione cast a look about her and settled her eye on Ginny, who had just finished her own breakfast. She exclaimed loudly.

"Ginny Weasley, put your clothes back on again at once!"

Harry choked on a piece of toast. Ginny- perfectly decent in her usual Hogwarts robes- spat out a mouthful of pumpkin juice. Ron dropped his porridge bowl into his lap- and Hedwig immediately pushed her snowy head into it. For the moment, Ron failed to notice.

"Hermione, for crying out loud, don't talk about my sister like that!" he spluttered. "And Harry, get this bloody bird under control! Owls..." he glared at Hedwig, who, having eaten her fill, turned and shuffled across the table to her master, "Don't... eat... porridge."

"Sorry Ron, 'Mione," Harry shook his head, and ruffled Hedwig's feathers who, after being ignored, affected to look the other way disdainfully. "I was miles away. It's Potions today."

Ginny had recovered her wits.

"What are you doing, talking about my brother's little sister like that?" she demanded of Hermione. Then she paused, and did a quick mental re-check. "Hang on, sorry, that came out a bit daft. You know what I mean. Er."

"They're as bad as each other," Hermione shook her head. "Harry, Snape will not kill you. Say it fifty times."

"No." Harry stuck out his tongue at her. "Late night, Gin?" he asked teasingly. Ginny grimaced.

"Dark Arts Homework. Milner gave us a choice- either an essay on the weaknesses of Dementors, or we capture a real life Death Eater, transfigure him into a toad, and bring him in to show the class."

"Nutter." Ron groaned. "Still, pity we didn't get that one. You can bet Malfoy'd love a chance to bring his dad in to sit in on one of his classes."

"Couldn't you have transfigured Snape?" Harry rubbed his brow. "He'd count."

"Oh, for goodness sake, Harry," Hermione snapped. "You've been having Potions classes for five years now. You can't say you're scared of the man."

"The differences, Herm-own-ninny," Harry untied the letter from Hedwig's leg, "are that for those five years, I wasn't stuck on my own in a room full of Slytherins... and I hadn't tried to push Snape's brain out through his ears in the summer holidays, remember?" he unfolded the letter, read it twice, and then grinned. "At least the evening's working out," he remarked. "Assuming I live long enough."

"What's happening this evening?" Ron asked- a little indistinctly.

"Honestly, Ron, Harry's owl's had her beak in that," Hermione sighed. "The DA meeting, remember? Closed session for the four of us to work out what we're doing this year?"

Harry nodded, and, petting the somewhat mollified Hedwig, sent her off to the owlery.

"That's right." He noticed the curious stares on several of his friends' faces, and smiled mysteriously. "It's from Tonks. Everything's ready."

"What everything?" Ginny enquired. Harry smirked.

"That's for me to know, and you lot to find out... when my plans have reached fruition." He paused. "Ha. Ha. Ha."

"Oh dear," Ginny sighed. "Voldemort possessed you again, has he?" Hermione and Ron flinched at that, but Harry grinned playfully.

"Oh, come now Ginny, Tommy doesn't have nearly my... panache, when being evil's concerned. How could you possibly get us confused?"

Ginny looked at the clock.

"Well, that's good, Harry, because it's nearly nine o'clock... so you're going to need all the evil you can get."

* * *

The corridor outside the Potions' dungeon was less packed than in past years- but entirely with what seemed to Harry to be unfriendly faces. There were seven other students in the class, all of them Slytherins, and as he turned the corner and hurried towards them, not sure whether to be relieved or apprehensive that he wasn't late, they turned to face him in unison, one great serpent with a blonde ferret for its head.

"What do you think you're doing here, Potter?" Malfoy drawled. He was no longer flanked by Crabbe and Goyle- even Snape's fairly legendary bias towards his own House didn't stretch far enough to allowing either of those two into his NEWT Potions class- but, surrounded by six other Slytherins, that seemed rather unimportant. Harry was unsure of his chances in a fight with them and, after previous years, had resolved (for once) to try to avoid trouble with Malfoy in Potions where possible- largely because of the confrontations it inevitably led to between himself and Snape. He smiled, showing gritted teeth. Then, in as sunny and irritating a tone as he could manage,

"Learning, when the class starts, Draco. That is what we do in school, remember?" He beamed at the boy, and settled his back against the wall to wait.

"How do you think you're taking Advanced Potions?" Draco sneered.

"An 'O' on the OWL, Malfoy," Harry smirked. A little bird in the Ministry- well, to be precise, Nymphadora- had let slip that Malfoy himself had only received an 'E', but his mother had appealed the result, claiming that stress over his father's involvement with the Dark Lord had spoiled Draco's chances unfairly. Snape had supported the appeal, and had been allowed to accept Draco into the class. Malfoy's face reddened slightly.

"Well, Potter, exams are one thing, but they aren't the most important..."

"Ah, but it's nice to get them _right_, isn't it?"

"But Potions is a Slytherin skill." He sneered at the Gryffindor boy. "Professor Snape did say we might be cutting a bit of the chaff away from the grain in these first few classes." He exchanged knowing grins with some of the other Slytherins.

"Well, he'd know, wouldn't he?" Harry retorted- and, sure enough, behind him, right on cue, a sardonic voice _purred_,

"Twenty points from Gryffindor, Potter, for arguing in the corridors." Harry's mouth clamped shut. Malfoy allowed himself a gleeful grin as Snape walked by, unlocking the classroom door. "Hurry inside and take your places," Snape snapped. "There is no time for dallying about in corridors during lesson time."

Harry fumed as he stalked to the front of the class. Snape would only tell him to move there later, the better to embarrass him in front of the other students.

No time for dallying about in the corridors? Where the hell were you then? I swear you lurk around deliberately so Malfoy can get me to do something you can take points off for, you greasy f--

"We will begin." Snape stalked to his desk, and pulled a massive book from the shelf behind it. "I dislike preamble, and time is short. You are here, because, deservedly or undeservedly-" his black stare settled, inevitably, on Harry, "- you have achieved respectable OWL grades and expressed a desire to continue with your education in the subtle art of Potion making." He opened the book, whose leaves fell upon the desk with a dust-swirling thud, and leant forward, leaning over the class like a malevolent gargoyle. "Be warned. I have tried, over five years, to instil in you all a respect for this craft, and an understanding that Potions, unlike other lesser trivialities of wand-swishing tomfoolery, requires dedication, ambition, precision, and ruthlessness." He paused, and looked directly at Harry. "The impetuous foolhardiness which is so ingrained a characteristic of certain Houses in this school will serve no one here." He narrowed his eyes. "Will it, Potter?"

Harry had had enough. It was probably a mistake, but his patience with Snape was already running thin. He returned the look.

"I'll bear that _in my mind_, Professor," he told Snape meekly. "Thank you."

Snape's mouth shut like a trap. "We will begin," he repeated. "You will brew for me a draft for the palliative care of sufferers from terminal exposure to the Cruciatus Curse." He raised his head. "Ingredients and utensils are to be found in the customary places, anyone not capable of finding them after five years may as well leave now. You will work in pairs." He paused, and waited for the students to pair up, gleefully watching as the Slytherins avoided Harry. Then, when the Gryffindor boy's isolation was just plain enough to satisfy him, he snarled, "Since Mr Potter seems unable to perform the simple task of finding a partner in a class of even numbers, it seems I must select for him. Zabini, you will work with Potter. It may be that, trying to teach him, you will possibly remember something yourself."

Blaise Zabini stalked rather unwillingly past Malfoy, who muttered something snide in her ear, and dropped her bag and belongings behind the desk next to Harry. As Snape turned away, she mouthed something very like _'greasy git'_ at his back.

"Right," she said in a sulky tone, "get on with it then."

Harry, seeing that Blaise didn't plan to help yet- she was making great show of the time it would take her to set up her things on a new desk, walked as non-confrontationally as he could over to the equipment cupboard. On the way back, Pansy Parkinson managed to knock his pestle and mortar out of his hands. They shattered on the floor.

"Ten points from Gryffindor, Potter," Snape called, his eyes glittering. "And Sixth-year students are expected to take responsibility for school equipment. You will make arrangements to have the fee for a replacement pestle and mortar credited to the school accounts by the end of term." He turned back to continue talking to Draco Malfoy. Harry glared pure hatred at Pansy, who flounced back to Malfoy and Snape. He returned to his desk with the rest of the apparatus. Blaise had sat down, and was scratching her head over a page in the Potions textbook.

She was an odd sort of girl, Blaise. Small and dark haired, and plain without being even interestingly ugly, the Slytherin witch was almost androgynous. Indeed, in younger years Harry had heard Malfoy- when for whatever reason he hadn't chosen to visit his usual bile on Harry himself- make a running joke out of not being able to decide if Blaise was male or female. This last summer or two had made that a little more obvious, but the pale skinned girl appeared to resent this more than revel in it, and wore her robes loose over quite baggy grey-black trousers. She kept her hair cut short, and both hair and face were deliberately as sober and unadorned as she could manage.

As he tried to set up the things on the desk, she looked up.

"I hope you know what you're doing," she remarked, "Because I've got less chance than Longbottom in a detention with Snape of getting this thing right."

Harry blinked, and hefted the cauldron on to the desk. Blaise moved the book out of the way, but otherwise showed no great interest. He sighed, and inwardly counted to ten.

"Well, we might stand a better chance if _both_ of us did something," he hissed. "Thought Slytherins were meant to be ambitious and determined?"

"Thought Gryffindors were meant to hex the hell out of anyone who got up their nose?" Blaise nodded towards Snape in a moody tone. Still, at least she got up, and conjured a fire under the cauldron. "All right, Potter. You realise he'll make you drink this at the end, and you realise if we get it wrong it'll probably kill you or something?"

"That's all right," Harry began cutting up ingredients, and wondered if having to drink chopped Galdenmeyat eyeballs was actually worse than chronic nerve damage. "If he kills me, I'll just return from the dead and atomise him."

"Ato-what?"

"Muggle expression."

They continued to work. Progress was slow- for once Snape appeared to be entirely correct in his reservations about Zabini's abilities in Potion-making, but, on the other hand, it was little surprise to be way behind Malfoy, since Snape seemed to spend half an hour of the lesson talking earnestly to him, and almost absent-mindedly helping the boy's work along as he did so. The result was that Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson were finished, and standing idly and smugly beside their simmering cauldron while the rest of the class, especially Harry and Blaise, were still hard at work.

Malfoy sauntered over as Harry was stirring the thick, almost coagulated mixture.

"Oh_ dear_, Potter," he sneered, "That doesn't look right, does it?" He laughed to himself, and turned away, fiddling in his sleeve. Harry looked away pointedly- and caught a flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye. Malfoy had pulled something like a small brown sugar pyramid from his sleeve, and was reaching round, trying to surreptitiously drop it past Blaise into the potion, when she seized his wrist, twisting it behind his back. Malfoy screamed, and Snape spun round.

"Whatever is... ZABINI! Let him go this instant!" He thundered. Blaise let Malfoy go, pushing him ungently into a table. The boy doubled up, then straightened, turning round and cradling his injured wrist, glaring murderously at the androgynous girl.

"What do you think you are doing?" Snape snarled. "I expect this sort of idiocy from Potter, but I can hardly think that he could have contaminated you this quickly." He stood in front of Blaise. Harry saw Malfoy quickly kick the discarded sugar pyramid under a desk in the corner of the room, and look triumphant. Blaise flushed.

"I.. he was trying to put his hand on my bum, sir," she lied. Snape's eyebrow raised, and he looked to Malfoy.

"I wasn't!" Malfoy spluttered. "I was just going to point something out to her. Something she'd got wrong, sir!"

Snape looked most displeased. Clearly, biased as he was, the idea that Malfoy might willingly do _anything_ that could even inadvertently help Harry was not one he was prepared to believe. Finally, he marched to the front of the class.

"Take more care in future, Mr Malfoy, and kindly ensure that you continue to behave with proper decorum and conduct in my lessons." Malfoy flushed slightly. Snape turned to Blaise. "And I will remind you, Ms. Zabini, that unwarranted physical attacks on any student are not permitted. He turned his head this way and that like a watching crow. Finally, he finished. "Five points from Gryffindor, Mr Potter, for standing around idly with your jaw hanging open. You have yet to complete your potion, and you will note that time is running out."

* * *

After the lesson, Blaise called to Harry as the group of students- Harry trying to get on ahead of them and away, moved up through the dungeons.

"Potter, hey, Potter..." she stopped, and glared at Pansy Parkinson, who had accelerated forward to listen. "Sorry about that- I did try not to drop you in it."

"Don't worry about it, Blaise?" Harry shook his head wearily. "If a butterfly dies on the other side of the world, Snape'll find some way to take points off me for it."

Zabini nodded, and then whirled round, her knee connecting sharply with Malfoy's groin as he crept up behind them. As the boy doubled up, she grabbed him by the shoulder and pinned him to the wall.

"And _you_," she snarled. "Get this straight, Draco. I couldn't care less if you and Potter hex each other into next week, or cut little bits off each other with carving knives... but if you ever, _ever_ try to mess up my work again... or try to involve me in your pathetic little vendetta, then I'll cut your genitals in half lengthways and leave them hanging from you. Assuming I can find them." She smiled, and patted his cheek with one hand, then let him go. Quick as a flash, the other hand produced a rusty, blunt old knife she must have purloined from the dungeon at some time. "With this, dear Draco. Run along now."

Blaise watched as Malfoy, straightening his robes and stalking off with a vain attempt to recover his dignity, departed. She twisted her lip. "Ferret-faced pervert," she muttered, then noticed Harry's amused grin. "What are you looking at?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all." Harry retreated.

* * *

"And you're sure there aren't any Zabinis in your family, Ron?" Harry laughed. Ginny was shaking her head and sniggering, and even Hermione was finding it a little difficult to keep a straight face.

"She actually threatened to castrate him with a rusty knife?" Ginny hugged herself, her face threatening to split in half. Harry rounded the corner, and sighted the statue of Barnabas the Barmy in the distance.

"She was a bit more graphic than that, though." He shook his head. "I wonder if there were girls like that in Slytherin when Tommy was at school."

"It'd explain the high voice, wouldn't it?" Ginny smirked. Ron, still laughing to himself, walked three times past the statue, and they hurried into the Room of Requirements- once more set out as the training and meeting room of the Defence Association.

"Hello Tonks," Harry waved a hand. The young witch got up hurriedly from where she had been lounging on top of one of three large wooden packing cases. "It all came in all right?"

"What..." Ron spluttered... "Are you wearing?" He stared. Tonks' hair was vivid red on one side, and vivid orange on the other, and her robes where vibrant red and orange check pattern. One boot was red, the other orange.

"Gambling with my brothers _again?_" Ginny shook her head. "You'll never learn, will you?"

"Ah, but the stakes were worth it," the young Auror held up a finger knowingly. "You wouldn't want to see what they'd have had to wear if they'd lost."

"What is all this?" Hermione was starting to open one of the packing cases. Harry hurried across and took the pry from her hand.

"Hold on," he smiled. "You'll find out- at the first proper meeting on Tuesday. I want it to be a surprise for everyone." He chuckled. "If we've got to carry on with this another year, we might at least start with a bit of a show."

"Dumbledore gave you the go-ahead then?" Ron asked.

"On the condition I change the name from 'Dumbledore's Army' back to 'Defence Association' before his ego suffered permanent damage," Harry grinned. "His words, not mine."

"I just hope he doesn't have a heart attack next Tuesday," Tonks shook her head. "You realise this is going to be quite a... controversial idea?"

"So was the world being round." Harry gave her a confrontational look, and Tonks held up her hands defensively.

"Don't get me wrong, I think it's a great plan, Harry... but I also think it's a good idea to gamble with Fred and George Weasley. If you want a reliable second opinion, look elsewhere." She attempted to sit nonchalantly on the edge of a crate. While she picked herself up off the floor, Harry responded.

"Point taken."

"OK." Ron folded his arms. "What... is a great plan." He glared at Harry. "It's all very well talking about surprises, but Mione and I are supposed to be your deputies... shouldn't we get some sort of sneak preview?"

"Yes, you should." Harry folded his arms in turn. "Unfortunately I've spent the morning with a bunch of Slytherins. I'm afraid my ethics have quite deserted me. Sorry! You'll find out on Tuesday."

* * *

Harry was still chuckling over his little deception as he got into bed several hours later. They'd talked for quite a while. Some of what Tonks had to report to him- as Order business- was depressing. There had been no further attacks, thank heavens, but equally no further leads. The Ministry was continuing to be as obstructive as it could be behind the scenes- and appeared to be keeping a close eye on the school. Tonks had encountered at least one private secretary in Hogsmeade who had no business being there, emerging from the Three Broomsticks, apparently a little the worse for drink and rather dusty. She rather suspected him of having just come through the secret passages from some unlicensed 'intelligence gathering' (although she noted that it seemed strange to associate the former word with Cornelius Fudge) on school grounds.

He sighed, his good humour momentarily quelled by the recollection, and set his glasses on his bedside table, continuing what had now become his nightly routine by taking the Pensieve Dumbledore had given him from his bedside table, and beginning to use it to order his thoughts.

Used the way the Headmaster had trained Harry to use it, the Pensieve did not actually hold that many of his thoughts overnight- just a few extremes of emotion, such as his anger with Malfoy and Snape, weakening several points of vulnerability the Dark Lord might exploit, should he try to gain access to Harry's mind. It was a fairly quick process, and one he had grown quite used to in the week or so he had had the thing. He had had to grow used to it. He did not want to ever experience what he had seen in the home of the Powells again.

When he was satisfied that his mind was properly ordered, Harry lay down and closed his eyes, beginning to deliberately calm his mind, drawing it into that dull, mechanical state which appalled and frustrated him, but seemed to be the best defence against Voldemort. As always, he was unaware at what point he passed into sleep.

The moment the dream began, Harry's anger and fear rose in him. He almost never dreamed, since he had begun sorting his mind with the Pensieve, and what dreams he had were pale, insipid things. As he found himself striding through vivid flames, he knew that what he felt was an image from the mind of Voldemort.

How? How can he have broken through?

"You are a fool." The voice was everywhere, high, cold, and pitiless- and tinged with a sadistic amusement. The flames had shape now, licking about a small cottage. Three huddled shapes were slowly being consumed by the fire. "You think that you can conquer my hold on your mind, Potter?" A presence was behind him, but he could not turn. "Walk with me." The pre-emptory command was accompanied by the firm pressure of a thin hand on his shoulder, and Harry found himself being marched through the ruins and out into a sullen night above a grey hillside.

Over his shoulder, Voldemort gloated. Harry could see nothing but grey, grey emptiness as far as the eye could see.

"It has amused me to toy with you, boy," he sneered. "And to see your faint attempts at defiance. However, the time for such games is over."

The hands spun him, and he fell to his knees, looking up into the pale snake-face of Voldemort, high above him, a white gleaming light at the summit of his black robes, impossibly tall.

"There is no light I cannot shadow, Harry, least of all your pathetic beacon." Voldemort touched one skeletal finger to his own forehead... and Harry's mind convulsed, the agony flashing into being in his scar. He could feel himself, twisting in pain in his bed, yet could not leave the hillside, as Voldemort continued his assault on his mind.

"No light, no light, no light," Voldemort chanted, and each word was a fresh stab of agony, each sound reverberated through the boy's skull. "Know this, Harry..." and the voice was kind, and the hand trailed compassionately across Harry's cheek- and every touch was like a poisoned claw scratching deep. "You will die. You will die ere the new year begins, and there is no haven that I cannot penetrate, no wall that I cannot tear down... but before you die, you will have seen the beginning of the end for all that you love."

The hand curled about Harry's throat, and his scar burned, his dream-eyes seared with light and madness until only the faintest ghost-vision of the terrible figure before him remained, as Voldemort hauled Harry upward, and gazed into his eyes.

"I tell you this without malice, my soul-brother," Voldemort spoke softly, but every word was tinged with ecstasy at his foe's pain, "For when death comes, knowing this, you will welcome it. Darkness comes... hush... I have formed you like a father, and now I lay you down to sleep," he murmured. "Sleep deeply Harry, for there will be no morning... sleep long and deep, and I shall watch over the world for ever after you have gone."


	11. We'll meet it together

****

Chapter Eleven: "...we'll meet it together."

"... and that's about it." Harry shifted uncomfortably in the chair. He hadn't been in Dumbledore's office for several months- and found it an unpleasant reminder of his last visit. Still, he was prepared to accept that the desire to be kept informed was a two-way street.

"Another of your nightmares, Potter?" Snape stood against one wall, his arms folded in surly fashion. "So, this is your alleged progress in Occlumency in action, is it?"

Harry ground his teeth, and looked up at Dumbledore, in the chair opposite. The old man had listened patiently to Harry's story, asking Professor Flitwick to excuse him from the morning's Charms lesson as soon as Harry had come over to him at the breakfast table. Now, Dumbledore's eyes moved to contemplate Snape, and Harry was pleased to see an expression of irritation enter into them. Snape saw it too, and subsided.

"Thank you, Harry." He stroked his silver beard. "We have been fortunate- Voldemort has deceived you, but on this occasion not by much."

"Oh yes?" Harry flushed slightly. Dumbledore nodded, and his eyes glinted.

"It was no house or cottage that was raided last night, Harry. The Daily Prophet has not yet been allowed to release the story, but I'm afraid to say that Azkaban was attacked. Without its Dementor guards present- who would in any event, I fear, have been more likely to help Him than hinder- the Aurors guarding it were unable to prevent the raid. There were many deaths- both amongst guards and criminals, since Voldemort seemed to find it amusing to kill some of the Muggle-born inmates." He sighed. "I'm afraid that most of the Death Eaters we have managed to capture so far have been released. Doubtless it was this elation which opened Voldemort's mind to you."

Harry caught at that last, and narrowed his eyes. "You're saying that as if... as if Little Tommy doesn't actually have much more control over this link than I do?"

In the background, he vaguely heard Snape choke. Dumbledore's eyebrows rose slightly at Harry's choice of name for the Dark Lord, but he nodded.

"Not as much control as, I believe, he would like you to think." He raised a fingertip warningly. "More control than you can, as yet, exercise, Harry. He can heavily influence what you see when your minds touch, but he cannot altogether shut you out any longer.

"He'd better take some Occlumency classes of his own, then," Harry remarked. He cast a look back towards Snape, and loudly remarked. "I'd like to say that shouldn't be a problem, since we both know a good Occlumens... but unfortunately I can't." Snape glared balefully at him, and he heard Dumbledore make a small sound of disapproval. Harry turned back. "I guess that explains that 'soul-brother' part." He rubbed his cheek, and then looked up at Dumbledore. "Then there's that threat."

"Harry, if I can keep you or those you care for safe in any way..."

"It's not about me, sir." Harry explained to the Headmaster the conclusion he and Hermione had come to over breakfast. "He said he was going to kill me, and even the strongest place I could hide wouldn't be enough... and that before I died, I'd have seen the people I care about start to be destroyed."

"I see your line of reasoning." Dumbledore frowned deeply. "It does indeed sound as if Voldemort is contemplating an attack on the school."

"Don't you think I ought to leave?" Harry hated to suggest it, but there was no other real alternative that he could see. "I don't want people to get hurt."

"And it doesn't occur to your meagre brain that that may well be precisely why the Dark Lord told you such a thing?" Snape muttered disparagingly. "He understands Gryffindor foolishness, Potter, only too well."

Dumbledore held up a hand, to forestall Harry's inevitable retort.

"What Professor Snape says does have some sense in it, Harry... and there is, I regret to say, a rather more persuasive argument." He looked a little embarrassed. The emotion sat oddly on his wise features, but Harry could almost swear he saw a faint blush rise on the Professor's lined cheeks.

"Why has this school been spared an open attack by Death Eaters, when so many of their enemies work here?" Dumbledore looked directly at Harry. Harry squirmed slightly. "Please answer me, Harry?"

"Well, erm... it's a bit..." Harry gave up. "Well, because you're here, Professor Dumbledore."

Dumbledore chuckled, and nodded. "I'm a little embarrassed at my own self-aggrandisement, Harry, but that is true. Rightly or wrongly, Lord Voldemort has always had a certain... regard for my destructive potential for his plans."

I.e. the nasty little snake's scared skinless of you,

Harry thought, but his mood was darkened by the Professor's next words.

"If he is contemplating an attack on Hogwarts as this message suggests, Harry, then it seems that the threat of my presence is no longer enough to dissuade him." Dumbledore sighed, and suddenly looked terribly old. "If that is the case, then, Harry, the attack will come anyway. He hates this school, hates what it stands for, hates the tiny core of humanity that once existed within him that saw this place, saw the wizarding community as his ally, not his enemy. Your leaving would not save us, if Voldemort no longer fears me."

Harry bowed his head, but Dumbledore continued quietly, in a voice meant for Harry's ears alone,

"Also, Harry, if that is truly the case, if he is right to believe that I can no longer counter him, then there remains only one power in this world that may keep him from the gates of this castle." Harry looked up, questioningly- and met Dumbledore's unblinking stare, as the Headmaster looked straight at him and, almost imperceptibly, gave the smallest of nods towards Harry himself.

"Did you sense," Dumbledore raised his voice to normal, as Snape moved closer, both irritated and curious at the private communication between the two of them, "Anything further in Voldemort's mind during the contact? Anything at all? I know Tom of old... together, even if he seeks to deceive you, we may find some truth."

"Nothing much," Harry shook his head, feeling a little shaken. It wasn't that what the Professor had said was a surprise- he was now growing used to the idea that he might, somehow, have a power to counter the Dark Lord, although he was still no closer to any idea of how to make use of it, but to have it confirmed so definitively, and so early, made him reel. "Just a sense... it might have been because of Azkaban- and, well, because he'd just released Lucius... but I got the weirdest feeling that Malfoy- I mean, Draco, was going to be involved somehow."

"In Salazar Slytherin's name!" Snape snarled. "You imagine that the Dark Lord would place his trust in a schoolboy?" he shook his head vehemently. "He is not as... naive as others. No, no, of course you don't." He paced about. "This is just part of your tedious schoolboy feud, Potter. I am quite well aware of Malfoy senior's unfortunate... predilections- we were contemporaries in our own schooldays, as the Headmaster is well aware, and we--"

"Went bad together?" Harry enquired innocently.

"The point is that I have taken special care to ensure that Draco, whatever faults he may have, will be able to resist the temptation to join with the Dark Lord," Snape retorted coldly. "I am well aware of your dislike for the boy, but before you throw baseless accusations before the Headmaster, kindly take the trouble to distinguish between the father and the son."

"Why?" Harry grated venomously. "You never did."

"If you wish to remain in my class, Potter, you will..."

"I think we've had this one out before, Snivellus!" Harry jumped to his feet. "No, I don't wish to remain in your class. I wish to be taught Advanced Potions by someone competent and who at least makes an effort to _pretend_ to be impartial. I wish to never see your greasy face again, I wish to see you chucked into Azkaban and made to scrub the floors with a dead hedgehog. You wish I'd been finished off fifteen years ago this Halloween. You wish I'd dropped out of Potions after OWLs, stayed locked in a cupboard with the Dursleys, or better yet that my dad had fallen under the Hogwarts Express in his first year before you'd ever met him. Deal with it, Snape. We don't get what we want."

"Evidently." Snape had caught a warning glance from Dumbledore, and contented himself with a sneering curl of the lip. Harry, controlling himself with an effort, turned back to face the Headmaster.

"I'm sorry about that, sir." He closed his eyes for a moment. "Um... will you let me know if you find anything else out?"

"Of course, Harry." Dumbledore looked thoughtfully at him. "As a fellow member of the Order, that would be my duty."

Harry nodded, and got to his feet. On his way to the door, a thought struck him.

"Oh, and sir?" he asked.

"Yes, Harry?"

"About the Defence Association- could you really try to 'push it' in the announcement next week? I've got something a bit special planned for Tuesday night." He smiled mysteriously. "And don't ask. If the Weasleys can't get it out of me, the Order definitely won't manage it."

* * *

It was strange, he reflected later that day, as Ron and Hermione argued over some article of Charms homework- the only subject apart from Dark Arts which all three of them were still taking together, how little Voldemort's message- and more, Dumbledore's frankly worrying admission- had rattled him. Dimly, he thought he saw a vulnerability in Tom's assault. Just as before, when the sheer horror of Voldemort's attack on the Powells had been needed to break through Harry's Occlumency, now the very nature of the threat, in some way, calmed him. He was concerned- but concerned for the school, and angry at Voldemort's disregard for human lives in threatening to attack it. Still... the Dark Lord's eagerness to unsettle Harry, his desperate attempts to terrify him... they all told against Voldemort's own claim that Harry was no threat to him. That meant that Voldemort thought there was a possibility Harry could win. That thought shone for a moment like a thread of light, a hope of salvation... and then, in a dizzying reversal, it seemed to be a crack in the ground, a shifting tear from which there was no escape. Voldemort still held all the cards. He understood the struggle. Harry did not.

"Well," he remarked, "At least one of us has got faith in me."

"Faith!" Ron exclaimed, and grabbed back the roll of parchment he'd just handed to Hermione for her- unwilling- correction. "That's it! Of course, it's so simple..." He sank back into his customary armchair in the common room, making hurried corrections to his work and muttering to himself all the while. Hermione and Harry exchanged a look of bewilderment, and Harry settled back to enjoy the evening sunlight as it shone in through the castle windows.

"What's a-doing?" Ginny dropped her schoolbag in his lap and settled on his footstool, looking at her brother as he worked. Harry shrugged.

"Beats me. He's had a brainwave."

"Probably been hanging round Luna too much," Ginny remarked, and Harry swore he could see Hermione's hackles rise slightly.

"Isn't it time we went down to the Hall?" Hermione asked pointedly, getting to her feet and addressing her red-haired friend. "Dinner time, Ron."

"Just a minute, 'Mione," Ron muttered from behind a piece of parchment. "I just want to get this charm right..."

"Come on." Ginny pulled Harry to his feet and bustled him down to the portrait hole. "I don't know how, but Hermione and my brother appear to be possessing each other simultaneously. Since any solution to this is probably going to be wet and disgusting to witness, let's eat."

"'Oi." Ron beckoned them back, putting down the parchment in a moment, and avoiding looking at Hermione. "We've got ears, you know."

"Oh, we know," Harry assured him. "You've also got mouths, and those are the bits we'd rather you didn't share in public."

Hermione threw a book at him. He dodged, and grinned. "Anyway, we were about to eat, remember?"

"Well, before you do that, Mr Potter," Ron opened the flyleaf of one of his books and pulled out a notice. "You can run along to the Quidditch notice board and pin this up. Practice times and try outs. We've got our first game against Hufflepuff in three weeks, remember." Harry rolled his eyes at him. Ron fixed him with a look. "Your Captain commands you, Mr Seeker... assuming you want to stay on the team. I'm sure we could find a replacement." Ron grinned.

Harry took the notice.

"Ah," he added, pausing with a sly smile on the sill of the portrait hole, "But where would you find a Chaser who fancies the Seeker... sorry," he beamed at Ginny, "Fancies being the Seeker, I should say." Harry's head vanished through the Portrait hole seconds before a rather novel little hex passed through where it had been, and struck Colin Creevey on the forehead. Making an inarticulate spluttering sound, and pausing only to apologise to Colin, who appeared to have been transfigured into a teapot, and reverse the spell, Ginny chased after the bespectacled Seeker.

Ron and Hermione looked at each other. Ron spoke first.

"He gets away _how_ exactly with teasing us for flirting?"

"Are we flirting, Ron?" Hermione frowned at him. "I remember certain... incidents at Grimmauld Place, and I also remember you saying that you 'weren't sure', 'didn't know', and lots of other things, generally ending in 'um' and 'er'." She looked at him a little archly. "Would you like me to get back to you on that now?"

"Didn't you say it was time to go down to dinner?" Ron fled.

* * *

"You git!" Ginny caught up with Harry several fortunately deserted corridors later. She glared at him in mock-severity. "That was... way too far, Potter. You total git!" She grabbed his arm and spun him round. "I ought to... to..." she hesitated, at a loss for words. Harry leant against the wall and grinned impishly at her, straightening his glasses.

"Be fair, Ginny. I've had to wait years to be able to tease you about that."

"How so?" She was trying- with some considerable effort- to remain poker faced.

"Well, I couldn't tease you about it at the time, could I? For one thing, you'd have squeaked and run off,"

"Harry Potter, I do not squeak," Ginny retorted in the closest imitation of a House-elf's tones Harry had heard in a long while,

"... and for another you were a poor little innocent," Harry laughed. "It wouldn't be fair to do anything until you could fight back."

"Poor little innocent? I'm only five months younger than you, you realise?" She put her hands on her hips. "And you think I can fight back now, can I?"

"Oh yes."

"Weapons of choice?" Ginny arched an eyebrow. Harry checked himself. His pulse was running away with him, and he felt a little too hot. He felt... he felt like he'd felt last year, in the Room of Requirements, with Cho Chang. How had things gone like this? Ginny and his relationship wasn't like that, surely? But the temptation to say- or worse- do something silly in response to her challenge was almost overwhelming.

"Um..." he hesitated. Then something moved in his peripheral vision- which currently consisted of absolutely everything that wasn't Ginny Weasley.

"Oh, hello Harry, Ginny." Luna Lovegood murmured. "Isn't it a nice evening for a walk?"

"We're indoors, Luna," Harry spoke, a little flatly, while he tried to decide if he was tremendously delighted with her or tremendously annoyed with her for breaking in on the situation. "One evening is much like another."

"Ah, but the humidity levels outside the castle have a direct bearing on the air quality within," Luna informed him. Harry, out of habit, tried to exchange a resigned glance with Ginny- and found that she had followed the same habit. Both flushed slightly.

We'll continue this... another time, he thought firmly, and deliberately gave her a friendly smile, which she returned with some apparent relief. Luna continued to talk meteorology as the three of them continued along the corridor. After a few corners, something about that seemed to strike Ginny's brain.

"Erm, Luna, whereabouts were you going?" she asked, a little puzzled. "Harry and I were both going to post Ron's Quidditch trials notice."

"Oh good," Luna beamed at her. "I'll follow you then- I wasn't sure quite where it was."

"You're going to play Quidditch?" Harry fought to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

"Not at all," Luna smiled. "But father always says that it's a fascinating strategic game- did you know Quidditch evolved from early wizarding mounted warfare?" Harry nodded- he'd read the article in the Quibbler itself in the summer. He wasn't sure if he believed it, but challenging the veracity of the Quibbler was one of the few things that could actually irritate Luna, so he preferred to save it for more important matters. "I've been wanting to observe some of the training sessions," she smiled as they reached the board, "But Cho Chang won't let me watch the Ravenclaw team train. I thought I might ask Ronald if I could help your team out." She smiled cheerily.

Harry and Ginny exchanged another look, and Harry pinned up the notice.

"Well," he drew in his breath. "I'll ask him for you... but don't bet on it, Luna."

Luna beamed at him.

"I'm sure Ronald will be delighted," she told him. "I've nearly finished my birthday present to him."

"His birthday's in March," Ginny blinked. "Isn't it a bit... early?"

"Oh, he'll believe it's March when he gets it," Luna smiled, and walked away without another word.

"Ssso..." Harry shook his head for a moment. "Does she fancy Ron, or are we just reading too much into random nonsense?"

Ginny shrugged.

"Beats me, chef. It's been a weird sort of evening." She flicked her eyes once more to meet Harry's, and then set off determinedly back down the corridor. "Good evening, Professor," she added, as Milner, looking rather pleased with himself, nearly collided with them at the corner. "Sorry," she added, as she stepped on his toe.

"Quite all right, Miss Weasley," Milner murmured distractedly. "Your friend here's done worse to me... in practically every lesson so far this term, in fact."

"You attacked me... sir," Harry gaped. Milner grinned at him. Harry fixed him with a look. "In every Dark Arts lesson this term, Gin, our alleged teacher here seems to have found some excuse to hex me, curse me, or throw bits of furniture at me."

"Aye, aye... ye've got me banged ter rights there, laddie," Milner dropped into an accent which was presumably intended to be Scottish, but wasn't, "...but what about Advanced Magical Theory then? There I was, wasn't I? Half-way through demonstrating the properties of wands, which is about the most boringly not dangerous thing you can imagine, isn't it?" Milner lilted from somewhere west of Shrewsbury, "...and young Mr Potter Stuns me just for the hell of it. Boyo."

"You pointed the wand at my head," Harry protested, "And started talking about the reductor curse... I forgot which lesson I was in."

"Short term memory loss," Milner declared, suddenly in full lecture mode, "... is one of the hazards of too-frequent magical combat, students. List three charms which can protect against..." he trailed off into silence and looked round the suddenly empty corridor. "Och, typical. First they curse you, then they don't pay attention when you're tryin' ter teach. The Noo. Oh, aye'll hev ter have words wi' that bonnie Scots lassie McGonagall aboot this, after oi've 'ad moi nosh."

* * *

"Oh, I do love the spring," Hermione remarked. "All the leaves, the colours."

"It'll be October in a few weeks," Harry rejoined. Summer's dying days were, as so often, the season's most glorious, and even Hermione had largely forgotten homework as the six of them- including Neville and Luna- had made their way down to join the many students enjoying their first Sunday afternoon at Hogwarts since the beginning of term sitting on the shores of the lake. A great many of them seemed to be first and second years, and Ron had slipped briefly into Prefect mode to berate a couple of second years who were trying to push a third into the water. They had settled by the waterfront, and spread out their school robes on the grass beneath them, relaxing in shirt sleeves.

"Look at them," Ron snorted, gesturing towards the smaller children. "Do you suppose they know they're going to have to deal with OWLs and NEWTs in a couple of years?"

"Time is a winged messenger that carries all our dreams of idleness away," Luna mangled various poems, while lounging on the bank in pre-Raphaelite fashion.

"Er, yes." Ron rolled his eyes.

Harry sighed, and rolled on to his stomach. In the grass in front of him, two ants were struggling with a small piece of vegetation.

Do you have Dark Lords of the anthill? _Psycho super-ants who want to take over the colony and kill everyone who doesn't fit into their worldview?_

He stood up.

"Would anyone mind if I went off for a walk?" he asked, suddenly. "I've got something I need to do."

They variously indicated their assent, and Harry made his way off towards the perimeter of the Forbidden Forest. He'd been putting this off long enough. When all was said and done, the very idea that he was finding the war with Voldemort somehow simpler and easier to fit into his world-view than his friends' social lives- not to mention his own- was _not right._ He'd rebuilt his bridges with Ron and Hermione a long time ago now... but he still felt a little guilty at some of the things he'd felt and thought last year about his oldest friend. Harry knew that Hagrid wouldn't blame him- the man wasn't subtle, but, whatever the appearance, Hagrid was far from stupid where people were concerned, but he also knew that, to an extent he blamed himself. There were other reasons too.

He knocked on the door.

"'Ello, 'Arry!" Hagrid beamed, overjoyed, and for a moment years seemed to vanish, as the half-giant groundskeeper bustled Harry into his hut and sat him down. Harry, for his part, was pleased to see that Hagrid looked more himself than for a long time, the wounds and bruises that had become so worrying a part of his appearance last year now all but gone. He wanted to ask about Grawp, but found himself uncertain of how to begin.

"Hagrid... I..." Harry broke off, as Hagrid handed him a bowl - it really was too big to be called a cup- of tea and a biscuit. At least, he assumed it was a biscuit. It might possibly have been a dragon scale.

"Drink up, and tell me what's been happenin' with you, then." Hagrid gave him a perceptive look through his shaggy hair and beard. "You've grown, Harry. And I don't mean in height neither, though you'll soon be up to my shoulder if I don't stand up straight."

"I've sort of had to," Harry confessed in a wry voice. "I..." he stopped. Nothing seemed the right way to say it. "Hagrid, you know what's happening... Voldemort... well, I..." He looked up at him.

This is ridiculous. You can tell Dumbledore you're grown up, but you can't tell Hagrid.

This man gave me my world back. Dumbledore hid it from me for ten years. All right, so he meant well... but...

"Spit it out, Harry." Hagrid looked at him.

How can I? I'm an eleven year old boy who's just found out he's a wizard. I feel like... I... it's just so... ridiculous.

"I... I'm scared." Harry blinked rather fast, and set his tea down on the rough little table. "I can't say, but I am. I've got to... to keep fighting, to keep trying... and I can't not grow up." He looked miserably at his friend. "Everyone needs me to face Him. I need to face Him... but I'm terrified, Hagrid. Terrified out of my wits and I don't know what to do."

Hagrid moved awkwardly across the hut to him, and put one massive arm around Harry's shoulders. The boy took off his spectacles and wiped them furiously.

"It's ridiculous. I can make plans, prepare everyone... I'm not frightened of Voldemort," he looked apologetic as Hagrid flinched at the name. "I'm not frightened of dying." He screwed his eyes up tight. "Hagrid, so many people have died..."

"Not your fault!" Hagrid looked into his face. "You listen to me, Harry. None of it was your fault."

"Not till now!" Harry shook his head, the tears standing out in his eyes. "Hagrid, you must have heard the prophecy?"

"Dumbledore told me not to tell yer," Hagrid shook his head, "Great man," but there was some doubt in his voice.

"Dumbledore was right," Harry told him, and felt a great weight shift from him. "I wasn't ready. I'm not ready now, but time's up. Hagrid, if I lose..."

"You won't lose, Harry."

"They'll all fight with me, I know they will." Harry sobbed. "I didn't want them to... but it's not my fight, not really. If he wins, then they'll all die either way. But it's going to be me, and him. I can't lose, I just can't..."

"Harry!" Ginny leant her head round the door. "I thought you might be in here... Ron... and..." she trailed off, and looked wretchedly at Hagrid in apology.

"No... Gin." Harry held out a hand to her. "It's all right. I shouldn't have been putting up walls against you lot... it just seemed."

"Harry, what is it?" Ginny glared at him. "If I find you've been blaming yourself for things again... I _shall_ turn you into a newt.

"Steady, Virginia," Hagrid cautioned.

"How am I going to do it, Ginny?" Harry asked her, wiping his eyes. "We'll stand together, yeah, we'll face him... but so far all I've done is made sure we'll make a pretty last stand." Ginny came across and sat beside the two of them. "The truth is, Ginny, that I don't know." He looked at her.

Ginny stared back.

"I know that," she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"But..."

"Harry, you've been walking about the place as if you've got the answers, like you're some great general itching to get to grips with the enemy, because you think that's the only way you'll stop yourself, and us, going to pieces," she sighed. "We've been making fun of Voldemort... just so we stop ourselves having nightmares about him." She looked seriously at him. "Nobody expects you to have all the answers, Harry."

"She's right, Harry." Hagrid soothed them. "I reckon this lot have already told you you don't have to fight alone. Maybe its time you worked out you don't have to worry alone neither."

"Just... be yourself, Harry," Ginny put a hand on his cheek. "Don't run through life in a fever because you think we'll be terrified if you occasionally look like you've lost the plot." She swallowed, and looked at him again. "Voldemort isn't a joke. He isn't 'little Tommy', he isn't your 'arch' enemy who's going to be beaten by you and me taking the mickey out of him. I know that as well as you do. So do Hermione and my brother. Voldemort's cruel, he's heartless, and he's nearly immortal... and there's nothing he wants more than your death. So, no, I'm not saying 'of course you'll win, you're Harry Potter'."

"Then what is there to say?" Harry asked.

"Just one thing," Ginny told him, and kissed his cheek. "We believe in you. Not that you can win without a fight, not that you can leap tall buildings with a single bound, and destroy little Tommy with a snap of the fingers and a funny quip... but we... I believe in you, I believe that you'll try your best and, if you can beat him, you will."

Running footsteps sounded nearby as Harry, not quite trusting himself to speak, took a sip of tea.

The door flew open, and a small boy, panting fearfully, fell into the hut. Ginny caught him just before he toppled over.

"What's up, Tim?" Harry set down his tea and looked at Tim Pennyweather in concern.

"Professor… Hagrid…." Tim gasped red-faced, struggling to catch his breath, his legs wobbling under him.

"What's up, lad?" Hagrid- looking rather surprised to be called 'Professor Hagrid'- bustled over to him. "Have a cup of tea and one of my rock cakes and we'll have a chat, eh?" He beamed. Tim caught his breath.

"Professor… Hagrid… they told me… to find… you, to come and find you, that's what Neville Longbottom said…" he swallowed.

"Neville?" Harry looked at Ginny, then back to Tim. "Whatever's the matter?"

"Something's… wrong… with the giant squid."


	12. ATTACK of the AMOEBA VENDETTA!

This one was a lot of fun to write. I hope it's reasonably entertaining to read as well, and that the silly chapter title doesn't fall under the heading of Unforgivable Curses.

* * *

****

Chapter Twelve: ATTACK of the AMOEBA VENDETTA!

The door flew open, and a small boy, panting fearfully, fell into the hut. Ginny caught him just before he toppled over.

"What's up, Tim?" Harry set down his tea and looked at Tim Pennyweather in concern.

"Professor… Hagrid…." Tim gasped red-faced, struggling to catch his breath, his legs wobbling under him.

"What's up, lad?" Hagrid- looking rather surprised to be called 'Professor Hagrid'- bustled over to him. "Have a cup of tea and one of my rock cakes and we'll have a chat, eh?" He beamed. Tim caught his breath.

"Professor… Hagrid… they told me… to find… you, to come and find you, that's what Neville Longbottom said…" he swallowed.

"Neville?" Harry looked at Ginny, then back to Tim. "Whatever's the matter?"

"Something's… wrong… with the giant squid."

* * *

By the time the three of them- Tim had been left in the hut to recover and guard a rather nervous Fang- had reached the lake's edge, it was only too clear how true his words had been. As they climbed over the brow of the grassy bank, the squid broke the lake's surface about a hundred metres away, thrashing its tentacles in agony. Harry, Ginny, and Hagrid hurried down to join the large crowd of students at the water's edge.

"It started about ten minutes ago," Ron hurried up. "Hermione and I were… talking," he flushed briefly, "And then the thing just leapt up out of the water and fell back- screaming."

"Bloomin' heck," Hagrid looked outraged. "Somethin's attacking her!" The squid reared up again, and as its beak cleared the water, an agonised shriek sounded across the lake. A couple of first-years screamed. Hagrid's eyes started. "I've got ter do somethin'," he fretted. "She's bin in there nigh on forty years…" he stopped. The squid rolled over, still writhing in agony, and three tentacles came into view- the outer two torn and weeping pus, the middle one brutally cut short at somewhat less than half its length. As the squid rolled, Harry thought he could make out something gleam across her body- like electric blue strands of cobweb reaching up from underneath. "I've got to help her…" Hagrid looked wildly about.

Hermione took charge.

"It's attacking from below, whatever it is," she said. "Ron, Neville, get any DA members here organised." She scanned the lakeshore, and pointed. A few hundred metres further along the shore, a small bay had, long ago, been walled off from the main lake with a low, curving wall of stone just below the water's surface- perhaps as a swimming area for less adventurous students, perhaps not. "There, the closed bay." She looked at the crowd of students, and gestured frantically for their attention. "We're going to lift the giant squid," she told them, and waited for the chorus of disbelief to quieten. "It's not that difficult. We'll only have to haul her a few metres out of the water, and in water she won't weigh that much."

Another scream cut across the lake.

"Hurry," Hagrid wrung his hands, dancing from foot to foot. Hermione glanced at Harry.

"With me," she said, and drew her wand, pointing it at the stricken invertebrate. "Wingardium Leviosa!"

Ginny flinched slightly, and, as Harry joined Hermione in the spell, did the same. The three of them felt the creature's huge weight at the end of their wands. Too heavy. Harry grit his teeth.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" came from all sides, led by Ron, and, as the sweat beaded on their brows in the sunshine, the squid started, slowly, to lift from the water, threshing about itself madly, the electric blue tendrils still clinging, slashing at it as it went. One seemed to loop about one of the squid's undamaged tentacles, and, with a strange _pulse _that Harry more felt with his wand through the spell than saw, tightened. Thick ichor spurted from the squid, and the lopped-off end of the tentacle fell into the lake with a sickening splash.

"I think I'm going to throw up," Ron choked.

"Keep the spell on it!" Hermione hissed. Now the squid was more than half out of the water, and Harry, Hermione, Ron and Ginny, leaving the lifting work to the rest of the students, bent their will upon a movement charm, driving the beast faster and faster towards the safe, walled off waters. Hagrid set off at a run towards the bay.

"Be careful, Hagrid!" Harry shouted with what energy he could spare. The squid was closer now, and he could see those attacking tendrils- strange, oily, glowing things, like the patterns in spilt petrol made solid- more clearly. They were clinging to their prey, slipping loose and trying to grab hold again, reluctant to release.

The squid was nearly at the wall now, and the tendrils were seething, pulling back now, perhaps sensing that all was up.

"One... last... big effort..." Ginny growled, and shifted her magic back to help with the levitation charm. Slowly, ponderously, the wounded squid lifted into the air entirely. Cuts and abrasions covered its massive, hideous body, and more, thicker electric tendrils drew back, slipping down into the water as the creature was rescued. Suddenly, just as they were about to release her into the walled-off pond, one tendril flashed out, something like a sword gleaming at the end of it, spinning, and cut a cruel gash in the squid's side. Then, even as the giant squid screamed out again, it was gone, back into the depths.

Three dozen wands were lowered with gasps of relief.

"Bloody hell," Ron breathed.

"Seconded," gasped Hermione. "To think I asked Madam Hooch about swimming lessons in that..."

"To think, the Second Task in the Tri-wizard Tournament," Ron practically squeaked, with a glance at Harry.

"Hi, look at that!"

They turned. Colin Creevey was standing on a headland, pointing excitedly out into the lake. Ten first and second years were gathered around him, all looking and pointing. Harry followed the line of his finger.

Out there in the water, not far from where they had first seen the squid's plight, something small had risen up out of the depths. He wiped the water from his glasses and squinted. It was an arm. A normal arm, except it was electric blue.

"One of the mer-people," Hermione thought. "They might need our help."

"They can bloody well help themselves," Ron sniped. "After what..."

"Stow it, Ron," Harry gestured. "Look!"

At the end of the arm, something gleamed. Harry peered at it in confusion- and then suddenly connected it to what he'd just seen, moments before.

"It's a sword..." he breathed.

"Like Excalibur and the Lady of the Lake," Hermione whispered. Harry looked at her in amusement, then back at the arm. It was still, unmoving for a moment, and then slowly, very slowly, a human figure, all blue and shimmering like oil, rose up to stand upon the water. It tested the sword, swinging it in a wide arc- and then, without warning, parted its teeth in a silent snarl, and flung the blade at the shore.

Fast it flew, unnaturally carried on the air by unknown force, accelerating, and burning brighter as it flew, a harsh crackle growing in the wind. Harry flicked his eyes back, following its flight. Straight at the small party on the headland it flew, spinning now, small bolts of lightning discharging on the water from its deadly blade. He launched himself towards the group, seeing Colin desperately try to push the first-years back, fumbling for his wand, but Harry knew he could not reach them in time... and Neville, nearer than he was, hurled himself in front of them.

"Reducto!" he heard the other boy shout, desperately, and the curse struck the sword, sending a great arc of electricity down into the water. The blade shattered, but the sparking fragments still tore on through the air. "Protego!" Neville gasped, flinging up his arms to protect his face. For a moment his shield charm flashed opaque blue as the electric sword struck it, and then it was gone, and smoking fragments of the blade were hurled away into the water.

Harry and the others ran to him, and as he ran, Harry thought he saw some more of those strange threads draw back from the destroyed weapon, snapping back through the air to the strange figure which had cast it.

"I'm all right..." Neville gasped, and winced, doubling up, his shirt reddening with blood.

"Let me see that," Hermione pushed his hands away. A jagged slither of blade, transparent like glass, about a foot long, had stabbed into the boy's side. She looked apologetically into his eyes, and tore it free. Neville squeaked. "It's not a deep cut," she told him. "Still, we'd better get you to Madam Pomfrey..."

"No time!" Neville pointed over her shoulder. Harry whirled. More figures were surfacing, and more, and more... four dozen at least. More swords were hurled through the air.

"Shield Charms!" He shouted. "DA members, try to get the younger students behind you..." Ginny vapourised a sword with an unrecognised curse seconds before it would have sliced Ron in two. "Everyone, back to the castle!"

No sooner had he said that than dozens more of the thin electric threads tore out of the water and arced overhead, striking the bank behind them and, somehow, at their tips, swelling, rippling out into human form. The figures swung their weapons forward- swords, axes, terrible morningstars, and the students found themselves cut off.

"REDUCTO!" Ron and Harry shouted in unison, and blasted one of the electric warriors apart- but the fragments, some glassy, some queer, gelatinous things, seemed to melt into the surrounding warriors and make them larger than before- and more strands shot overhead to replace the gap in the army.

"Everyone, hold them off!" Harry bellowed. "Any curse you can think of!" then, seeing escape was impossible, he spun his wand to point at his own throat, and muttered, "Sonorus." He raised his head to the wind, and turned to face the impossibly distant castle. He called one word in a voice like thunder.

"**DUMBLEDORE!**" Then the enemy were upon them.

The creatures fought viciously, their weapons casting nets of electric stings about them so that even when they did not strike their targets- and the students were succeeding in keeping them at a distance, still Harry's small force was diminished, students falling to the ground writhing in agony at the electric shocks- and now the warriors on the water were growing nearer to its edge. Harry looked wildly at Ginny. Alone, they could probably have fought their way out, but they were fatally hampered by the largely defenceless younger students- and leaving them behind was not an option.

Experimentally, he slashed with a Cutting Curse at one of the thin, oily threads on the ground. It broke- and the end further from the lake seemed to bubble and boil away. At its far end, one of the warriors- who had been just about to stave in Clare Jacques' head- collapsed like an emptying protoplasmic balloon.

"Get the threads!" he shouted, and they did a little better- but only the warriors on the headland, whose life-threads lay across the ambushed students- were vulnerable in this way, and only a few of the DA, and none of the regular students, seemed to have the power to shatter the threads as terminally as Harry had done. Mostly, the warriors just seemed to convulse, to shiver, and then come on just as before. Harry spun round, casting a Banishing charm that flung three of four of the warriors in the water back- but a dozen more had already reached the bank. As he turned, he saw the flash of a wand in the woods a little further on, near the lake's edge- and caught a glimpse of an electric thread snapping back into the water from there too. A strangely familiar voice called out in pain. Harry stiffened.

"Hold the line!" he seized Ginny's shoulders. "Not one of them gets through to the kids, no matter what!" Then he plunged on down the hillside towards the thicket. Either someone he knew was trapped there, or someone was controlling this nightmare. Either way, he had to find out.

Harry pushed through the trees, and froze. Severus Snape, stripped to the waist, three dark, unhealthy looking cuts across his chest and arm, was duelling for his life against a tall electric warrior, armed with a lethal scimitar, a warrior who kept himself between Snape and the lifethread which snaked back into the water behind him.

"Diffindo!" Harry shouted, and the thread was torn asunder, even as Snape cast a dissolution hex into the creature.

"Potter... get the students to safety," Snape sneered, bizarrely starting to kick off his boots.

"We're trapped," Harry told him succinctly. "It's hemmed us in. What are you doing?" He stared. Snape had seized a handful of Gillyweed from his travelling bag, and was about to force it into his mouth. The Professor snarled at him.

"That's _amoeba vendetta_, Potter," he snapped.

"They are?"

"It is," Snape grated, continuing to undress. "One amorphous creature. They normally live in the ocean depths- what this one is doing here I have no idea, but you can destroy the tendrils to your heart's content- to stop it you must strike the brain centre... in the lake, Potter," he snarled, and staggered.

"Then that's a job for me, not you," Harry decided suddenly, taking another handful of Gillyweed from Snape's bag and starting to struggle out of his own shirt and trousers. Somewhere back on the headland, a great magical flash lit up the horizon, and he thought he heard Ron and Ginny shout in triumph- followed by a cry of disappointment, as more tendrils flashed out from the lake. "You've been hurt already, you're not up to swimming down there,"

"Don't try to grandstand here, Potter," Snape hissed, pulling himself upright with the aid of a tree. "Amoeba Vendetta is more dangerous than you can imagine. The only things that can hurt it are extreme heat and cold... and even then, its resistance is..."

"Greater than I can imagine..." Harry glared at him. "Look, no time to argue... we'll do it together." He raised the Gillyweed to his mouth, and stopped, a look of consternation flashing across his face.

"How can we fight like this- underwater," he croaked.

Snape sneered.

"Hasn't that idiot Milner taught you _anything_Potter? _Think_ the spell. It's more difficult, but the universe listens to your mind, not your voice." He turned, and dived into the water. Harry, seconds later, followed.

* * *

As he plunged into the inky dark, Harry cast a silent Clarity charm on his spectacles, and pulled himself on, with powerful, instinctive strokes, keeping pace with Snape. What was it the Professor had said? Extreme heat and cold. But only at the brain centre... how would he know it? He remembered the panic on the shoreline and swam faster, pulling himself on to where he reckoned the tendrils had been coming from, deep under the lake.

Then they came, flashes of electric blue, stinging, jagged, somewhere between shocks and blades, flying at him out of the dark. Snape raised his wand in front of him, shield charms and hexes mingled, and Harry did the same, slashing his way on into the gloom. Electric warriors loomed up- close to and in the water, even more like mer-people than before. Harry wondered what this thing had done to the villages of real mer-people, before becoming pre-occupied entirely with what the thing was trying to do to him. A warrior swung something like a spiked, light-studded cudgel of energy at his skull- and then warrior and weapon exploded in the fire of Snape's wand. Moments later, Harry returned the favour, some sixth sense warning him to turn, just in time to see an electric sword flying out from behind them at the back of Snape's head.

As he turned forward again, he saw it.

Visible in the gloom by its own terrible blue light, which hid in forgiving darkness not the tiniest detail of its hideous, misshapen form, Amoeba Vendetta sat above the lake bed like the mother of nightmares. It was not a true amoeba, for at the centre of its seeming billion tendrils of lycanthropic energy was a multi-cellular shape, like a giant, twisted brain, each of its frontal lobes marred with a deep set, maddened gleaming eye. The most horrendous aspect of all its appearance were the eyes, for they were human, rounded, capable of emotion- and somehow Harry felt that the mind which gazed out from behind them was familiar to him.

He was stunned for a moment into inaction, and so it was Severus Snape who cast the first assault- and Harry felt a wave of bone-cracking cold tear past him and on, on into the Amoeba Vendetta. As Snape attacked, Harry defended them both, twisting and turning in the water churned by the warriors and the sting-blades as the creature sought to defend its core being.

Again and again Snape struck, and the creature convulsed, but did not fail, and ever more the water about them grew thick with the shape-shifting claws and stings of the Amoeba Vendetta. It had abandoned the warriors now, preferring to lash at them with simpler weapons, not feeling the need to take the form of land creatures while it fought in the water which was its home. Then a great tendril, as thick as the tentacle of the squid, snaked out from the beast, and a scything swipe sent Snape spinning through the water, one arm hanging unnaturally to the side, and his head lolling in unconsciousness. Harry knew in a moment that Snape had seconds to live, and praying that the beast might not strike Harry himself in the moment of distraction, brought his wand to bear on the fallen Potions' Master. With all his might, he thought the charm,

Vios Hospital Wing!

Snape moved, thrust through the water by Harry's magic moments before a great blade cut through the place where he had been. The Professor was being pushed away faster, still senseless, up and away out of Harry's vision, even as Amoeba Vendetta's hideous blue eyes swivelled to regard the Gryffindor boy.

Reducto! Diffindo! Incendio!

Harry cast curse after curse at the creature- but only the last seemed to have any effect. Although quickly smothered by the water, the flame which momentarily licked from his wand did touch the creature's right forebrain- and it recoiled, convulsing and sending a forest of deadly weapon-tipped tendrils at him.

Extreme heat and extreme cold.

Cryos!

Harry cast the cold-spell desperately- and saw cracks of ice flash through the water. Tendrils burst and dissipated where the cold hit them, and when they struck the Amoeba's brain it twisted, regarding him with hatred. He had to press the attack... but already the tendrils were about him again, and he was forced to swim for his life, cursing them away from him with every jinx and hex he knew. It was no good. One person alone could not fight the leviathan that was Amoeba Vendetta. He had to get help... he had to escape, but the creature had conceived a deep loathing for him now, and its tendrils whipped about him, stinging him and drawing him back to face its wrath.

INFLAMMTORDUE!

I didn't think that spell!

Harry's brain reeled, as fire ripped past him, undimmed by the water, and slashed across the brain. The creature flung tendrils out at the new attacker, and a cutting curse tore them apart, as Ginny Weasley ripped through into the fray like a torpedo. Harry gestured to her, taking the time to freeze-kill a spinning blade tendril which was about to decapitate her, and then at the creature with his wand.

Cryos!

Cryos!

Again, together the two of them struck, and evaded the Amoeba Vendetta's counter strike. This time, the strategy was different. Rather than one attacking as the other guarded, Weasley and Potter struck in turn, each drawing the creature's ire and vengeance, defending themselves, while the other took advantage of the distraction to strike their own blow, and in turn draw the creature's fire. Thus the assault on the Amoeba was relentless. They struck with ice, as it seemed more effective than fire, and, as the ebb and flow of the battle carried Harry close to the brain surface, he saw that the colossal creature- at least the size of a house- was suffering, its gelatinous form solidifying in places, the cells on the surface cracked and broken, glassy shards of ice forming in the brain and breaking off.

Cryos!

He struck again, and swept _under_ the brain, seeing the bridge of neural tissue that connected one side to the other. An idea struck him, and he sped away from the inevitable tendrils of hate, even as Ginny struck at the creature's eye with fire. The Amoeba Vendetta convulsed in agony and rage- and as the temperature extremes raged across its surface, parts that were frozen began to splinter. Cells like frozen shattered eggs tore away. Harry swam upward and, making sure that Ginny could see his target, swung his wand down to point between the hemispheres from above.

CRYOS!

The Amoeba screamed- a high-pitched shriek that cut through the water, and Ginny repeated the stroke. Now the thing was barely attacking them any more, its tendrils scything through the water randomly- still lethally dangerous, but maddened by the injuries to its brain- and Harry felt the strange air of familiarity draining away.

CRYOS!

CRYOS!

CRYOS!

The brain was cracked and crazed with ice, when he reversed the spell, aiming just to the left of the join between the brain-halves.

INFLAMMTORDUE!

He echoed Ginny's earlier spell, and she joined him in it- aiming just to the right of the join. The joint crazed.

RAZORDIFFINDUS! The two brought their wands slashing down as one, and the spell tore Amoeba Vendetta's tortured body in two with terrifying force, the two hideous halves of the creature flung away, up and past them and out of sight through the tumult of water as the attacking tendrils boiled away into oil and gluten in the lake.

Harry gasped through his Gillyweed, and noticed a trail of blood in the water from Ginny's upper arm. He pointed to it, and she in turn pointed to a jagged cut across his stomach. He gestured to her, and they began urgently swimming toward the surface.

Harry tried to work out how long he'd been fighting the monster. What damage might it have done on the shore in that time? How many had been hurt? Had Snape reached the Hospital Wing safely? How badly was he hurt? So many questions- and then the water was lightening above his head, and suddenly his foot caught painfully on pebbles as he swam, and a moment later his head broke the surface.

"Blargh!" he spat out a mouthful of Gillyweed, and looked at Ginny, who was doing the same. Rather shakily, they leant on each other and stood upright in the shallows.

The whole school appeared to be watching them. Madam Pomfrey was fussing over several of the watchers on the headland, but- although Harry did not have the time or the remaining energy for a precise headcount- it seemed that their numbers were largely undimmed and, behind an advance guard of Professors, most of the rest of Hogwarts' students were staring at the lake in disbelief. Harry heard a distinct "Holy Hades and Sainted Jaffa Cakes" from Aloysius Milner, and turned to see what he was looking at. Behind them, on the shore where the small thicket had been, lay half the deflated body of the dead Amoeba Vendetta.

"I'll go further," Milner declared. "Great foaming buckets of yoghurt."

Harry turned to look at Ginny- and, for the first time, registered that she, like him, had stripped to the underwear to swim in the lake- in her case, a dark blue bra and knickers which clung to her- rather interestingly athletic, he found himself noticing- damp form in what he felt was an extremely fetching manner. He found himself rather surprised that, even in the heat of battle, he hadn't noticed that before. Then he realised abruptly what he was looking at and, blushing, jerked his eyes away.

Not soon enough. Ginny smirked at him, and remarked archly,

"Focus, Potter. And, before you think it, I don't think Professor Dumbledore gave you that Pensieve for salacious action replays of memories." She paused, and deliberately looked him up and down. "At least, not unless I can borrow it for a night or two."

"Ah.. Er.." Harry winced. Ginny was pushing her wet hair out of her face, and grinning at him with a quite indescribable expression. Then a soft cough from Dumbledore- whose eyes were twinkling in a way that Harry, on this occasion, found downright irritating, abruptly reminded the duo that they were standing, dripping wet, in their underwear, in front of what seemed to be the entire school.

A flashbulb went off somewhere in the crowd.

"Creevey!" Ginny snarled, and held up a thumb and forefinger close together. "You're _this _far away from incineration!"

Ron and Hermione scurried past the teachers and approached them with a towel apiece. Ginny accepted hers, and gave a wry grin.

"I can't believe it-" she sighed. "Neither one of us thought of transfiguring swimming costumes." Ron winced.

"Neither did Snape," he observed, and Hermione shuddered.

"Don't remind me." She addressed Harry, while wrapping a towel round him. "Thanks so much, Harry. The image of an unconscious half-naked Snape, shooting out of the water and spinning through the air towards the castle, wearing a pair of black leather y-fronts is going to figure in every nightmare I have for years now, I hope you realise that."

Ron grunted.

"Whereas I'm stuck with my kid sister seeing that, squeaking out 'Harry's alone down there!', and then stripping off and diving in the lake in front of the entire school," he moaned. "Trade you."

"Any time."

"Guys..." Harry quietened them with a hand and, leaning on Ginny for support, staggered up to Dumbledore. "Anyone hurt?" he asked.

"No one seriously, Harry," the Professor smiled. "At least, not beyond Madam Pomfrey's prodigious powers."

"What about Neville?" Ginny asked. Dumbledore nodded.

"Mr Longbottom will be perfectly all right, given a few hours rest. Hagrid is attending to the giant squid-" he paused, and glanced over towards the bay, where a massive figure, standing on the part-submerged wall, had just straightened up and given a wave, "And I believe that, in time, many of its hurts will mend." He chuckled. "Once again, Harry, it seems you are going to be something of a celebrity."

Harry groaned.

"Do you mind if I have a drink first?" he asked.


	13. Dawn of the Fighting Phoenix

_In which two people become aware of the glaringly obvious, and a shadow starts to be cast..._

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Thirteen: **Dawn of the Fighting Phoenix

All over the school, there was a vaguely suppressed feeling of excitement, which even the best stomach-filling efforts of a large team of house-elves had not been able to satiate. After Harry Potter and Virginia Weasley's battle against the Amoeba Vendetta, teams of reporters and Aurors had appeared in minutes at the school gates, and rapidly got in one another's way. Dean Thomas had told the other Gryffindors- when the wounded had been returned to the tower- of seeing Kingsley Shacklebolt firmly marching a fuming Rita Skeeter away from part of the corpse of the beast at wand-point, while the latter fulminated on the freedom of the press. Sure enough, the next morning- hardly to anyone's surprise- had seen Monday's Daily Prophet bearing the headline: "BOY WHO LIVED SAVES HOGWARTS (again)!" Harry had shuddered his way all the way through Ron's gleeful reading of the article.

"Yesterday afternoon, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, as recently as last term embroiled in the political hotbed that was the Educational Decree controversy saw what could have been a tragic accident and horrific disaster for so many of our children- one of many to befall the school under Albus Dumbledore's stewardship in the past few years- averted by the brave efforts of the Boy-who-lived, the famous Harry Potter.

How an Amoeba Vendetta- a hostile aquatic magical creature on the Ministry's controlled list- got into the grounds of the school remains a mystery, but at three-fifteen pm on Wednesday afternoon, the creature arose from the bed of the lake which abuts on to the school grounds, and attacked a party of students on the shoreline. But for the quick thinking and sheer nerve of Mr Potter, and his companion Miss Ginevra Weasley (both pictured here emerging from the lake after their titanic struggle with the monster), many lives could have been lost. It seems- from the testimony we have gathered, that, seeing their friends under attack, the two, who seem to have been enjoying a swim together at the time, drew the beast's attention away from their less skilled classmates, and engaged in a spectacular display of magical combat with the Amoeba, the results of which were clearly visible on the surface, before finally putting an end to it. We at the Daily Prophet would like to express our sincerest admiration to..."

Ginny had stopped Ron reading there, taken a look at the photograph, and strolled round the breakfast table to turn Colin back into a teapot.

"Well done, _Ginevra_." Harry had muttered with feeling. "You're not the only one who'd rather every copy of that photograph was burned."

"Oh, well, I think we could keep one each," she'd remarked slyly, settling back into her seat. Then she'd scowled at him. "_Gin... ev...ra_?"

"If it's in the papers, dear, it must be true," Harry had smiled blithely, and helped himself to another round of toast.

"I had a great-aunt Ginevra once," Neville had commented. "But she was mad."

"Neville," Ron had raised his eyebrows. "You never told us you were related to my sister."

Ginny had drawn her wand meaningfully at that point, and when she'd elaborated that;

"This place can always use more teapots..." they had quickly decided that teasing Harry was a safer occupation. Although arguably more powerful than Ginny, his sense of revenge was considerably less... creative.

* * *

None the less, the incident had, unfortunately, raised her in some fashion on to a sort of footstool in front of Harry's armchair of celebrity- and worse, she noted, put all sorts of ridiculous ideas into the heads of some of the males in the school. It wasn't Colin's fault- he probably hadn't even noticed the inappropriateness of their attire when eagerly snapping up a picture of his hero returning after his latest victory- and a bit of questioning later had satisfied her that, whoever had passed his film on to the Daily Prophet, they had done so without his knowledge. The boy had been so guilty over the incident that he hadn't even noticed that his nose was still a spout, with little puffs of steam coming from it each time he tried to protest his innocence. None the less, Ginny was growing heartily sick of some of the looks she was receiving from certain of the male students, and even more annoyed with the idiotic comments and assumptions about her and Harry that seemed to be even more universal. It was all very well to be admired... but this was ridiculous.

"Oh, I've only got myself to blame," she sighed. That had been more or less the gist of her mother's Howler as well. Harry had received one- she gathered from Ron, since, perhaps luckily, she hadn't been nearby when he'd read it, and had been almost reduced to tears by Mrs Weasley's demands to know what he was doing to her daughter's respectability. That, more than her mother's letter to her, had made Ginny angry. Very angry. Her reply to her mother's letter had been the first Howler she'd ever written- and probably the last, since she considered them a rather silly way to communicate, and had, if strictly bowdlerised, made it quite clear that Harry had never behaved in any inappropriate way towards her, and that if her mother was that concerned that what people thought was more important than saving lives, perhaps she should go and work in Percy's department at the Ministry. She'd then spent the rest of the day, and quite a bit of today as well, worrying that she'd gone too far.

She set out early to the DA meeting- Harry had already gone, and sitting facing Harry's empty armchair in the common room while Ron and Hermione chatted and the other Gryffindors gave her knowing looks had palled after a while. Besides, there was always the chance that she might be able to get at least a few minutes advance warning of what the boy was planning for tonight's meeting.

She stepped into the Room of Requirements.

"Ah, Miss Weasley, welcome." Harry stood at one end of the room, wrapped from head to foot in a long, black cloak, his hair, for once, combed back out of his eyes and parted almost neatly- albeit somewhat artificially arranged to conceal his scar. He nodded to her. "You're a little early."

"When you're involved, Mr Potter, it's better to be early than to be the late Ginny Weasley."

He looked over his glasses at her.

"Would you be implying that I'm mad, bad, and dangerous to know?" He blinked owlishly.

She grinned. At least Harry was treating her normally. She still couldn't quite... explain what had happened in the corridor last week between them- at least, that was to say that she had an explanation, but it was a ridiculous one, utterly silly and foolish- but the crisis he'd gone through in Hagrid's hut seemed to be put out of his mind for the time being. Almost experimentally, she halved the distance between them.

"I think we've covered dangerous to know quite amply these last few years," she told him. "As for bad... well, you've had Tommy inside your head, and mad... see point b above." She stepped one more pace forward, standing about three strides from him.

"True." Harry wrinkled his nose- "On the other hand, put the boot on the other foot." He took a step back to counter her. "See points a, b, and c, above, change title heading to Weasley, Virginia, and discuss." He smirked at her, stepping to his left.

"I concede on that one." Ginny bowed her head. "New turn." She stepped to her left and forward, so that they were beginning to circle each other. "Your play."

"Stakes?"

"First try as Seeker in the Quidditch trials."

"Done." Harry took a pace forward. "Spell question. "Inflammtordue." I've never heard of it."

"Made it up." Ginny took a pace forward to match his. Now one pace apart, they circled warily.

"Point of order," Harry stepped back a pace. "I concede your logic..." he stepped forward again. "My counter-challenge to your response, produce evidence to support you created new magic." He smiled.

Ginny stuck out her tongue.

Prove it? How? I could disprove it easily enough... but proving it...

She opted for the strongest argument she had.

"Argument from precedence. Switching spell, Grimmauld Place. This clearly shows Weasley, Virginia has creative talents, magically speaking, and therefore supports point."

Harry stepped back- but only half a pace. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"I partially concede. Your evidence is inconclusive." He grinned at her. "Please show further working."

"I claim first trial as Seeker," Ginny noted. "I now place my own challenge."

"Stakes?" Harry circled her, half a pace apart.

Ginny considered. "The loser must share a secret," she told him.

Harry swallowed. "Make your challenge."

According to the rules they seemed to have invented, she shuffled forward about a quarter of a pace. Circling was impossible now. Ginny looked up at him. Something was making it difficult to play games anymore. Harry was still smiling, but the smile seemed fixed, and behind it he looked... perplexed... and nervous.

Don't be silly, girl,

She told herself.

Don't spoil things... don't be ridiculous, Ginny, you know perfectly well what's happening... and why not?

Why? Because I care about him. That's why not. I've been trying to keep him from thinking about... it all the time. All the darkness. I owe him a bit of light. If we can just enjoy the light while it lasts...

No, you've both been trying to keep each other's minds occupied. You know what His return means, just as much as Harry does.

Still, it's just about playing games with each other... I care about him too much to try to build some silly dream of mine out of that.

Listen to yourself, Gin! You care. Why are you so desperate to help him? Why do you care about him? Why do you think he's doing the exact same thing for you as you're doing for him?

Ginny pushed her hair back, and looked up at him.

"I would ask my best friend," she paused, "If he would risk something he valued above all else for the sake of a dream?"

Harry bowed his head- and jerked it back up as his forehead touched hers.

"If..." he began, and wiped his glasses quickly with the sleeve of his robe, "If I felt that the dream was only a dream I would fear to lose... what it was I valued. If I thought that the dream was something else, then perhaps I would."

"What would be worth the risk of something so precious?" Ginny breathed, all teasing gone from both their voices. Each pair of eyes was locked on that of the other. Harry took a deep breath.

"Only the truth, Gin. To see what is precious for what it really is. That's the dream that's worth the risk."

The door clicked, and Harry took three steps backward.

"There, you see, Ginny," he told her, turning his back to whoever had entered, so that they would not see the flush on his face, "At close range it's even possible for two shield charms to overlap. It goes back to what Milner was telling us- well, the sixth-year Magic theorists, anyway, about magic having some sort of mass, that you need the focal point of a wand to project."

"Yes, Harry, I see now." She fought to keep her voice level. "By the way," she added, turning and giving Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbot a friendly smile as they made their way into the room- followed by several other DA members from last year. "I think you won that last round of the contest, Harry. Remind me to pay up next weekend, would you?"

"Deal, Ginny." Harry cleared his throat, and waited for the room to fill up, standing slightly apart from everyone, his arms tucked back inside his cloak. He looked, Ginny thought, although she was trying not to look too much at him, and to talk to the others, two parts stunned to one part gleeful- and that flavoured with a certain mischievous anticipation as he distracted himself from what had just happened-

Nearly happened, Madam, don't burn your baskets before they hatch-

with thoughts of the mysterious surprise he'd been plotting since last Thursday. Finally, when the room was around two-thirds full, of a mixture of old and new faces, Harry cleared his throat. He was about to make an announcement, when the door opened again. Someone started a remark about time-keeping, and then stopped. The room was silent for a long time.

The boy on the threshold looked round, almost nervously, and then set his brow in a determined furrow, and stepped into the Room of Requirements.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked.

"I... I want..." Goyle hesitated. Then he shook his head. "Forget it." He turned on his heel.

"Wait." Ginny heard Harry say, in a commanding tone, and Goyle stopped. He'd been following orders a long time, after all. Then she saw a strange look on Harry's face. He mulled something over for a moment. "Wait, please." Harry amended,and made his way through the crowd of students. "Why d'you want to forget it, Goyle? You came here for something. If Draco wants to pick a fight, then tell him fine." He looked thoughtful. "But this isn't to do with him, is it?"

The lumbering boy, his back still turned to Harry, seemed torn with indecision. Finally, he turned round again.

"Look, Potter... this isn't... I don't care about... well, about..."

"You Know Who?"

"No." Goyle grit his teeth. "I don't want anything to do with him. What Draco's dad gets up to... it's not for us, all right?"

"Funny," someone in the crowd remarked, "And here were we thinking the whole lot of you were the Death Eater junior league?" Harry rounded on the speaker, and his eyes were like... it was something so familiar, yet so impossible that Ginny caught her breath. Only once before had she seen such... understanding and disappointment tied so closely together. On that occasion, it had been Harry who had received the look, and it had been in the eyes of Dumbledore. Harry turned back to Goyle.

"What do you want?"

"I want to fight like you can, all right!" Goyle snapped, angry at being driven. "I want to be able to move like that... to do those things. I'm sick of just..."

"Oh yeah," Ron joined the conversation. "And what guarantee have we got that, if Harry teaches you a curse, you won't stick him in the back with it next week, when your little ferret says so."

"No more than he's got a guarantee that you wouldn't!" Goyle replied, hotly. "Look, why d'you reckon I stick with him and Crabbe anyhow?"

"Too thick to know anywhere else to go?"

"Yeah!" Goyle sounded bitter. "I'm not bright, I know that, all right. I'm pretty much a squib with a big fist... only I wanted something better than that... and I wanted to be able to do something... and my dad's always known Draco's dad, and we used to play together when we were younger, and yeah, he told us he'd see us right if we looked after him."

"So what's changed?" Hermione's tone was less openly scathing than Ron's, but she regarded the Slytherin boy with a penetrating stare. Harry remained silent.

"He's... back." Goyle said, and Ginny could see the fear in his eyes from across the room. "I think we'd guessed you was telling the truth last year- I know Draco knew, now, from what he's said this summer, and we all knew something was up with our dads. Thing is, Draco thought that was really good- we'd get on with Him... but we won't. It's not like me and Crabbe with Draco, it isn't." He scowled furiously. "He needs us, Malfoy does. Maybe we aren't much good now, not now you can do... all that, but he still needs us about, so we're all right. He lets us alone because he needs us."

"Malfoy's bookends," Harry said, very quietly. Goyle looked up at him, and the fear shone out of him now.

"You-Know-Who don't need no one, does he?" He waited. The room was silent. Finally, Goyle's shoulders slumped.

"Look, like I said, forget it. I'm no good. I'm not smart, I can't fight like you, I can't do nothing, I'm..." he shook his head. "I'm just scared. Maybe that's why I'm no use to you lot either." He turned away.

Hermione's eyes blazed.

"You were brave enough to come here tonight, weren't you?" She looked at Ron, at Harry, at the others. "There's nothing secret about any of this, is there?" She looked challengingly at Harry. "You said yourself you asked Dumbledore to say it: 'Open to any student in the fourth year or above.' I don't remember anything about it just being ones we happened to like."

Ron started to say something, then stopped. He eyed Goyle for a moment.

"I'll be watching you," he said, and walked off.

Harry raised an eyebrow, and then turned to Hermione. "Thanks," he said. "I couldn't really work out how to say that properly."

"That's what I'm here for." she shrugged.

Harry turned to Goyle.

"You may want to change your mind after I've finished with tonight's meeting," he cautioned him... "But if not... welcome to the Defence Association." Slowly, he made his way back to his old place in the middle of the room. Goyle moved a little further from the door, and several of the Hufflepuffs- many of whom had been on the receiving end of Malfoy's two thugs in past years- pointedly moved away from him, until Hermione strode across and attempted to begin a conversation with him. Ron, meanwhile, came up to Ginny.

"I know why they're doing it," he nodded to Harry and Hermione... "And they're right." He sighed, and gave his sister a sidelong glance, exhaling a long and frustrated breath. "Totally round the twist, but right."

"Would Ron and Hermione join me, please?" Harry asked. The two detached themselves from their conversations and went to stand beside him. All noise gradually subsided. Harry smiled.

"Thank you. I'm glad to see so many new faces," he smiled. "I'm also glad we shan't have to be tiptoeing round the place this year, since Professor Dumbledore's given his official blessing to this group." He paused, and muttered something in Hermione's ear, then went on. "Now... erm, I suppose a bit of an explanation might be in order. Last year, the Defence Association was a club... a bit of a homework club in a way, except that it was thought up, by Hermione Granger, as a way of giving us all the chance to learn the Defence skills that Umbridge wouldn't teach."

An angry mutter went through the crowd at the mention of Umbridge. Harry held up a hand. Ginny frowned. She hadn't really given much attention to his clothes before, but she didn't recall the garment whose sleeves she could make out emerging from the cloak as being in Harry's usual wardrobe.

"Umbridge is in the past now," he told them... "But, and I'm through with apologising for using the name, so anyone who's of a mind to shriek or faint... just do it quietly, Voldemort isn't. He's back, and I hope no one's going to deny that now." A hard stare round the room. A lot of people here had rejected and dismissed Harry as a lunatic last year, and it was clear that, however understanding he might be, that had hurt the boy. In a moment, though, Harry offered them a wan smile.

"Sooner or later, he's going to attack here.He's already attacked around the country." Harry's face darkened. "I won't lie to you. The chances that everyone in this room is going to survive this war are... not high."

A shudder went through them all. For Harry- especially with his current status as the school hero in view- to say something so... bleak, chilled them to the bone.

"I can't save you." Harry tilted his head up. "That's not what this is about. This is an Association. We're here to help each other... all of us. I'm not talking about an army. There are other things to do in war besides fight... and other things in life than war. I am... I am expanding the concept of this Defence Association, because I believe that there is a lot more at stake, a lot more on which our survival depends, than our skills with counter-jinxes."

He turned abruptly, and walked back into the room, pausing just by the back wall to swing his wand in an arc through the air, and with a muttered incantation, the several crates and boxes brought in by Tonks last week faded into view, their Disillusionment charm dissipating. Harry turned to the front.

"There is no allegiance that can hold the soul against its will." He began to unfasten the clasp of his cloak. "We are one people... all of us, young and old... but we must help one another, we must stand up as one and say to the darkness that we defy it. He pushed the cloak back from his shoulders, revealing a finely cut jacket and trousers of some dark red material, a thin silver line of trim around the collar and lapels. "I also felt that, since things tend to get a little rough in here, we could do with some sort of work wear." Harry smiled thinly at the joke, and went on.

"This is not, I repeat, an army. This is a community... and we aren't soldiers. I don't ask you to fight for me, I don't ask you to fight for Dumbledore. I ask you one thing, and if you agree to that then all I can say is that, stand or fall, you will not do it alone. I ask that you take a stand, each according to his ability, each according to his needs and his heart, for what you believe should be our world. Each of us may be the last to fall. None of us will fall alone."

* * *

"Mr Potter has done _what_!" McGonagall passed a hand over her brow, and sat down in the nearest chair. Dumbledore clicked his tongue, and considered a small ginger biscuit. Snape made a loud 'tutting' noise and continued to stalk back and forth past the fireplace in Dumbledore's office.

Tonks, putting her dragonhide-boot shod feet up on the Headmaster's desk, put her hands behind her head.

"That's what I said." She smiled. "He's got a bloody cheek, I'll tell you that."

"Doesn't he realise the danger?" McGonagall breathed. "Last year the Ministry thought Harry was training an army here... for you, Albus, and look what happened."

"Calm yourself, Minerva," Dumbledore mused. "And have a biscuit. As I understand it from Nymphadora, Harry is going to every effort to stress that what he is doing is not creating an army."

"Oh no?" Snape grated. "Uniforms, speeches, ridiculous Gryffindor claptrap of all that nature... what else would you call it? Even if the Ministry don't jump on our backs because of this, there's always the possibility that the Dark Lord might..."

"Then you must feed his contempt for Mr Potter further," Dumbledore interrupted. "Ensure that he continues to feel that Harry's schoolfriends are irrelevant. For their sake and ours."

"Why?" McGonagall shook her head. "One thing that has always been constant about Mr Potter is his desire not to involve others in his problems." she shook her head. "I'm concerned, Albus. I'm worried that we might have let him into too much, too soon."

"Why he has done this?" Dumbledore looked thoughtful. "To give the children hope, Minerva. Don't forget that Harry has faced Voldemort- more times than anyone in this room, and though he has survived, never without great cost. No, I do not fear what Harry may do. I do not doubt that many in that room would go into battle by his side if he ordered it... but I also know that he would not order it, not unless, at the last, they would face equal or less danger by going into battle than by staying behind... and that, I think is the crux of Mr Potter's reasoning. He knows, as we know, that only he can stop Tom... and he believes in his heart of hearts, I think, that he cannot do this. So he is not raising an army to protect him from the dark... but he is trying to give those he loves all that he can, the greatest chance for survival he can give them, if he fails."

"But... that may excuse Potter some guilt, Headmaster, but still the consequences..."

"May well be less than you think." Dumbledore took another biscuit. "If Kingsley and Nymphadora's suspicions about Sunday's incident are borne out... then it may be as well to confront the Ministry now as later. As for the Dark Lord..." he closed his eyes briefly. "There is something I have not told you. It may be that Harry has made a wiser choice than you or he can know."

* * *

"Can I have your attention again, please?" Harry took a couple of steps back to the centre of the room and looked around approvingly. It had taken the better part of forty-five minutes for those students who had accepted his idea to pick out uniforms that would fit them, to change in the row of cubicles provided along one long wall of the Room of Requirements, and to stand before him again. Inevitably, there had been some dissent. A few- mostly of the new arrivals- had left shaking their heads. Some had politely declined for the moment, and remained as they were. Gregory Goyle had been one of these. A great number though- Ron, Luna, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, Colin Creevey, Michael Corner and, surprisingly, Cho Chang, had adopted the new DA practice uniform with a queer look of solemnity and quiet pride.

He waited for the room to quieten, and for Ron and Hermione to come to his side. Each of their uniforms was trimmed with gold, to counterpoint his silver. Ginny, Neville, and Luna all had a dark green trim, and the rest of the uniforms were plain. There were no other badges of rank- there didn't need to be. The meaning of the colours was plain enough.

"Well," Harry told them. "We shouldn't keep you much longer this first night- I'm sure your teachers would agree with that... and since there are so many new faces here, it's probably best if we start with a more passive session than usual, so as to give you all an idea of what to expect this year- and, I hope, show you something about what you might hope to achieve." He turned to Ron. "Thanks, mate."

"For what?"

Harry smiled. "For not thumping me if I win this one." Then he turned the other way. "Hermione, would you partner me for a practice duel, please?"

"Ah..." Hermione looked slightly startled, and Harry gave her a mildly vulpine grin.

"Theory's all very well, 'Mione, but I'm sure you can manage on the practical as well."

"Just try to keep up." Hermione smiled sweetly, and flicked a Stunner at him before she'd even finished speaking. Ron dived for cover- and collided with Luna- as Harry dropped back away from the spell, not wasting time on a shield charm, but sending a petrification curse Hermione's way even as he dropped to his knees and rolled away. Hermione had no choice but to bring up her shield, and that gave Harry the opportunity to get clear and fire off three disarming charms.

Hermione's shield was strong, and held against them, but the charms had weakened it and bought Harry all the time he needed to reclaim the offensive and advantage.

"Inflammtordue!" he tried Ginny's spell, and heard Ron shout out in shock as the twisting tongue of fire seared out from his wand and shattered Hermione's shield, striking her jacket in the centre of the chest.

"Prot--" Hermione flung her arms up, then stopped, puzzled. Harry, keeping his wand levelled at her, prowled around.

"The jackets and trousers are shot through with dragon scale-slivers," he remarked. "There's also ten Galleons' worth of Protection Spells on each. Something to bear in mind if you're attacked with fire spells."

"Vios wall!" Hermione wasn't one to let her surprise get the better of her for long, it appeared, Harry reflected absently as he flew back through the air, students scrabbling to get out of his way. The impact with the wall would probably have been quite painful.

"Arrestae Momentus!" Harry's wand, jabbed backwards, froze him in midair. "Protego!" he followed up, since Hermione had sent a Stunner hot on the heels of the Banishing Charm. Sandwiched between his Shield and his braking spell, his feet scrabbled for the floor. Opposite, the clever witch grinned broadly, and raised her wand, making a characteristic 'swish and flick' that he knew rather well.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" she shouted, and Harry found the floor receding from beneath him.

She wants me airborne? Fine.

"Revolutus!" He shot the spell straight down her own line of attack, locking them together, and caught Hermione's wand arm, sending her spinning through the air, Harry pulled round in a circle about her, spinning with centripetal force. Almost everyone ducked. Since Hermione was in no condition to attack at the moment, and was standing in the centre of the room, Harry quickly cleared the path of his spin of anything he might crash into- namely, one changing stall, with a Reductor Curse, and one Goyle, standing open mouthed, with a Giddy Jinx- and ignored the vertiginous spin, focusing eyes and mind on Hermione, whirling almost helplessly at its centre. He remembered what Professor Milner had said about wands and the Summoning Charm. After all, it's all relative. If you jump up and down, you're actually pushing the Earth away- it's just that you're smaller, so you move more measurably. Equal and opposite reactions where two objects are free to move... and Harry was airborne, while Hermione was staggering, trying to keep her balance as the curse spun her round like a small bushy-haired tornado. The air rushing past his ears was making it hard to think, the blood was pounding in his head...

"Accio Hermione!" Harry shouted, and sure enough, he began to move closer to her- slowly at first, and then the pull of the Summoning spell jerked her off her feet and she fell forwards, and the spinning construct of magic they had created collapsed as the two flew towards one another.

"Stupefy!"

"Stupefy!"

"Repellos!" Harry flung out his wand arm- and forced himself away back from Hermione at the last moment, neither Stunner having found its mark, and was hurled back again.

"Protego Maxima!" he shouted just in time, as he crashed with astonishing force into three more of the changing stalls, one after another. He thought he heard several squeaks- one of which probably came from Ginny. The spell protected him from the worst of it, and at least the impact absorbed his spin, but still he was bruised and battered by the time he came to a distinctly dizzy halt.

Maybe duelling with the cleverest witch in the school wasn't the best idea?

"Bloody hell..." he heard Hermione breathe, in very Ron-like tones. "Harry, are you... are you all right?"

Good question.

He got to his feet. One eye could see normally, but the other saw the world through a maze of cracks and blurs. Oh well, assuming he hadn't broken Hermione's wand arm- in which case Ron would kill him, so it wouldn't matter- she could remember the spell to fix his spectacles, even if he never could.

Hermione was leaning against a wall, her sense of balance having washed its hands of her and probably gone to the metaphorical pub, her wand weaving uncertainly through the air in several directions, most of them nowhere near Harry.

Harry grinned at her.

"Expelliarmus," he retorted, almost lazily.

"What... Protego..." Hermione gasped, fumbling the spell, clearly not expecting Harry to be in any condition to cast a spell after his crash. His disarming charm cut through her weakened shield with ease, and her wand clattered across the floor. Harry took off his damaged glasses, and made out a Ron-shaped blur in the crowd.

"One for our side, wouldn't you make it?"

"Er, yeah." Ron walked to the centre of the room, picked up Hermione's wand and handed it back to her, and coughed. "I... well... wow." He shook his head. "Anyone wonder why these two are my friends? Well, would _you _want them as enemies?" He sighed, then grinned at Harry. "Harry wins, by being flipping indestructible as usual."

Harry weaved his way a little unsteadily to the centre of the room, and shook hands with an equally unbalanced Hermione.

"I would never have thought of using a Spinning Charm..." she told him, then continued, with a hard look, "Mainly because it was such a stupid thing to do!"

"That's why I did it," he retorted. "Remember Milner and the desk, and why I went for him and left you lot to deal with the flying desk? Your opponent is almost always a greater threat than any bits of furniture you might crash into en route."

"Brain damaged, poor boy," Ginny sighed at him. "Just like the Daily Prophet said last year."

Harry wrinkled his nose at her. He supposed that was her revenge for the 'Ginevra' quip this morning. He straightened up a little, as concepts like 'left', 'right', 'up' and 'down' slowly became slightly less abstract and irrelevant again.

"That concludes tonight's class," he told them. "Feel free to take your uniforms with you... and to practice any of the spells you saw just then that you're not familar with. On anyone. Especially Professor Snape."

A chuckle went around the group as it started to disperse.

Harry looked round at the six who remained.

"You know," he commented, and Hermione nodded in agreement, while Neville looked shellshocked, "That was fun. Let's do it again." Hermione changed her nod to an abrupt shake of the head, and stepped back.

"Oh no. Oh no. I need my inner ear."

"Wimp." Ginny drew her wand. "All right, Mr Potter, let's see whose world revolves around who this time, shall we?"

* * *

Some hours later, two schoolteachers stood in silence at the bottom of the staircase to Professor Dumbledore's study. Severus Snape wore his habitual look of slightly superior disapproval, while Minerva McGonagall's face was pale, and her hand shook slightly.

"Fate's Crucible..." she muttered to herself. "And You-Know-Who knows?"

"That is the Headmaster's conjecture," Snape remarked coldly. "I will look into it as a matter of urgency- although it is unlikely the Dark Lord will share that sort of information readily with anyone."

"Whatever could have made him do such a thing?" she shook her head, frowning uncomprehendingly. "The madness..."

"The same thing that drives us all, Professor," Snape told her abruptly. "The absence of any other choice."


	14. All's Fair

****

Chapter Fourteen: All's Fair

The rest of the week had been mixed, in Harry's estimations. Potions had the feel of a slow infection, which not so much continued as grew progressively more gangrenous. For the last two lessons, presumably as a sort of revenge for Harry's criticism of Malfoy during their meeting with the Headmaster, Snape had- with a smile so unpleasant Harry had half expected him to begin singing- made Harry partner Draco during practical work. While both boys were reasonably adept at Potions- and the flip side of the change had left Pansy Parkinson and Blaise together, a combination which had obliterated three cauldrons and a small portion of ceiling- Harry had rapidly come to revise his estimation of his chances of ever co-operating with Malfoy. Before, he'd thought it was almost certain they would never get on. Now he knew that the word 'almost' was just idling about in that sentence where it really wasn't needed. The only good aspect of the whole situation was that Draco obviously hated it as much- if not more, since he appeared to care about Snape's good opinion- as Harry himself, and had gone pleading to Snape at the end of each lesson to have the groups changed back. For once in his life, Harry had silently wished the other boy luck.

On a more positive note, the rest of his classes seemed to be going well- particularly Advanced Magical Theory. Milner appeared to be rather less... unsettled teaching that subject than he frequently was in his Defence classes, and, once he warmed to his subject, the man became considerably less awkward to work with. Despite the rather dry name of the subject, the class had proven to be anything but boring- in some measure owing to Milner's habit of punctuating 'Theory' with a number of deliberately explosive demonstrations. When Hermione had asked him about their relevance to an allegedly theoretical class, the stocky man had pulled a face.

"Theories are fine, Miss Granger. Without theory you can't explain anything, and if you can't explain it you can rarely do it with any reliability. Still, you can have the finest theory in the world about how well you can fly- and you'd still be advised to do a bit of practical testing before you chuck yourself out of a sixteenth floor window, no?" Even so, Harry had wondered if Professor Milner wasn't planning on taking it a little far when he'd announced that the following week's classes would take place on top of the Astronomy Tower, because, as he put it:

"No walls, Miss Granger. No walls means no holes in walls."

"But what if someone falls off?" Parvati Patil had gasped. Milner had turned his large, thoughtful grey eyes on her and blinked slowly in a way that reminded both Harry and Hermione of Luna Lovegood.

"Oh no, I wouldn't advise that at all," he'd said mildly. "Ooh my word, little studenties, wouldn't that make a dreadful nasty mess of Mr Filchies nice clean flaggy stones, it would, wouldn't it?" Still, on the whole, he was enjoying the classes, Harry reflected, and Milner's promise that, next week, they'd be getting right down to fundamentals- and that anyone who thought that was boring should remember how boringly atoms and bombs went together, had left most of them quite eager to get their teeth into what was to come.

Best of all, although perhaps also most worrying, there had been no sign of further activity from Voldemort, either in the Daily Prophet- which had somehow managed to find some excuse to mention the words 'Harry Potter', 'Amoeba Vendetta', and Ginny on every single day- or in his dreams. There were two downsides to that, of course. More trivially, it left more column inches available for the Prophet to annoy the Boy-Who-Lived with its apparently desperate attempts to re-ingratiate itself with the Harry Potter Fan Clubs of the country. After a somewhat sniffy correction letter from her Head of House, referred to in the Letters Page as "Mindy McGonagill", the Prophet had, at least, ceased to refer to Ginny as Ginevra. On the other hand, having been appraised that the name was 'Virginia', the erratically proofread newspaper had, on subsequent days, made reference to "Vinegar Weasley", "Virginia Creeper", and on one occasion, apparently getting their sentences muddled up, lauded "Vendetta Weasley" for her brave efforts in helping "Harry Potter defeat the Amoeba Virginia." Laughing about any of these things in Ginny's hearing- and Harry, Ron, and Seamus Finnegan had all learned the hard way that the diminutive redhead had extremely _good_ hearing, was punishable by a great many means, most of them distinctly embarrassing. Harry had later that same day overheard Ginny questioning Luna about whether her father happened to know many of the Daily Prophet's staff, and held his breath.

The more serious downside, of course, was that silence from Voldemort almost certainly meant some scheme or other was being set in motion- Harry and the rest of the Order were too much realists to think that the Dark Lord might simply have put his plans on hold. Ron might joke that "maybe he's just gone on holiday," but, truthfully, a respite, however brief, did not bode well. Occasionally he caught the oddest feeling- not from his scar specifically, but more from the universe in general, that, somehow, the cosmos had made a rather cruel joke, and was waiting for the right moment for the punchline.

Still, whatever the future might hold, Harry had welcomed the relief after the last couple of weeks. He had continued his Occlumency, and the only dream in which he'd suffered Voldemort's presence in the last two nights had been so surreal that he was inclined to blame his own subconscious rather than any machinations of the Dark Lord. After all, why would Voldemort want Harry to dream about drinking wine from the Tri-wizard cup while Ginny and Tom Riddle stood either side, dressed as waiters?

Now, on Saturday afternoon, even a light drizzle and grey skies could not wholly dampen his spirits as, Firebolt in hand, he and Ron led most of the third-to-seventh year Gryffindors- including a more than slightly resigned looking Hermione- down to the Quidditch pitch. He'd flown his broom before this, of course- for several clandestine night flights in the summer holidays between his birthday and his less than amicable departure from Privet Drive, just for the sheer joy of flying again, and to try to take his mind off earthly problems, but it had been nearly a year since his last game of Quidditch, and despite all that had happened since then, there was, he knew, a gleeful glint in his eye. Ron had- with a baleful eye from Hermione on him at the time, told Harry to reject Luna's request to attend the practice. Surprisingly, she hadn't been much upset. She'd just nodded, and remarked that she would have to make a note of it, and then asked Harry if he'd seen a small black stone anywhere. He hadn't. That hadn't seemed to upset her either, and Luna had wandered off.

"Right, you lot," Ron paused on the edge of the pitch and turned, his own eyes shifting about nervously. Harry and Hermione had both tried to give him as much advice on how they'd coped with public speaking at DA meetings as they could, but he was still obviously finding the idea of the Captaincy a somewhat overwhelming one.

"We're here to pick out a new team for this year- and hopefully next as well," he told them. "As you all know, we've lost a lot of the team… and after all the fuss last year, it's been suggested that we pretty much start from scratch." He swallowed, and fingered his collar. "No one's position's safe, least of all mine. Now… I know both Harry and Ginny have expressed an interest in trying out for Seeker this year…" a stir of interest at that, and the two exchanged grins. Ron had almost gone berserk when they'd announced that they were going to fight for the position after all- but relaxed a little when he'd seen how good-humoured the contest appeared to be, as opposed to the row they had once threatened over the summer. Still, it was clear that the redhead was not eager to have to choose between his favourite sibling and his best friend. Ron looked around.

"Anyone else want to have a try for that one?" he asked. There was a general silence. Then Seamus took a step forward.

"I'll have a go," he offered. "I don't expect I'll get anywhere, unless those two decide to go off for a swim instead of chasing the Snitch,"- both Harry and Ginny flushed beetroot red at that remark, and knowing grins spread across the rest of the Gryffindors' faces, especially Dean, who had finally managed to get Ron to believe that there was nothing going on between himself and Ginny, "but," Seamus finished, "I always fancied myself as a Seeker, and this is about my last chance to get on the team."

Ron nodded. "All right then. Well… picking a Seeker's a bit different to picking the rest of the team, so what I'm going to do now is have the rest of us split up into two teams, and play about a bit- no one's going to be scoring you on this, so just have fun, loosen up your flight muscles a bit, and Harry, Ginny, and Seamus can try and find the Snitch between them."

Harry nodded approvingly. The two had originally agreed to let Ginny have first try, but playing the Seekers against each other was probably the better test, and Ginny had gleefully told Harry that she was sure she could find something else for him to owe her.

Ron frowned. "Ok… we'll have me as the north end Keeper, with… I think Colin, Clare, and Andrew as Chasers… no, Andrew, you can be a Beater, actually. Dean, would you be a Chaser for me?" Dean nodded, a little out of his depth, and Ron turned to the other end. "Tom, Neville, and Dennis… would you Chase? Now…" as he went on apportioning groups, and dealing with the inevitable arguments, trying- largely in vain- to assure various players that it didn't really matter where they were assigned at the moment, Harry beckoned to Ginny and Seamus. Ginny, who had been watching Hermione's ill-tempered efforts to unfasten the large box holding the practice balls, came over with a grin on her face.

"He's not doing that badly, is he?" she remarked, a little proudly.

"Well, no one's been killed yet," Seamus observed, and received a quelling look for his pains.

"He's doing a lot better than I would," Harry said loyally. He shrugged. "Any how, how do you two want to play this?"

"Beats me," Seamus grinned. "If I'm going up against you two, 'staying alive' is about the only thing I've got in mind."

"The boy's so clever," Ginny patted Seamus' cheek, and then gave Harry a starry-eyed look as he realised with embarrassment that he'd scowled at her touching him. "We aren't that bad, are we, Harry?" she asked.

Harry raised an eyebrow at her, but said nothing.

"Everyone ready? Positions, please!" Ron called out, and, rolling his eyes slightly, helped Hermione pull the now opened box to the centre of the field, before hurrying, broom in hand, back to the north end goal hoops. Hermione opened the box, and released the balls.

"Go!" They heard Ron shout, and all the players kicked off up into the air- with the exception of Dennis Creevey, who slid off his broom. Pausing to check his brother was all right, Colin zipped past Harry and Ginny with a wave. His camera was quite noticeably absent, Harry noticed with relief, and looked back to Ginny, who was already combing the pitch with narrow eyes, searching for the Golden Snitch. A Bludger tumbled towards her and he started to shout a warning, but she feinted out of its path, and he had to scramble to do the same. Hurriedly he accelerated upwards, drawing his mind in to focus on the game. Below them, far below now, he could see Seamus making wide circles round the pitch. Harry and Ginny's own tactics seemed to be very similar- unsurprisingly, since she had of her own admission based much of her Seeking technique on Harry's own. They flew up high and waited, eyes scanning the pitch through the drizzle- a quick Charm on Harry's spectacles nullifying Ginny's advantage in that regard.

"So, I'm still waiting for this secret you were going to show me?" he commented after a few moments. The Snitch seemed to have decided to sit things out for a moment- assuming that Neville's somewhat bludgeon-like approach to beating, which appeared to consist of swinging his bat at anything that might conceivably be a Bludger that he saw out of the corner of his eye- hadn't obliterated the tiny golden thing. He shifted his gaze to Ginny for a second, and then back to the pitch, alert for any movement below.

"And you'll go on waiting till tomorrow," she told him smoothly. "Revenge for that trick about the uniforms. Besides, we need a clear afternoon."

"Fair enough." Harry was enjoying the gleeful tone in the young witch's voice, and had no desire to spoil her anticipation of the event. He tensed for a moment, following something entirely fictitious across the pitch with his eye, and made as if to launch his broom into motion.

"Nothing there," Ginny remarked calmly. "You can't fool me that easily, Potter."

Harry shot her another look.

"Worth a try," he smiled. "Besides, maybe I'd made the mistake. I haven't played this game for months, remember. Getting past it, I am, remember?" he teased, turning his eye back to the game below.

"Like hell, Potter," Ginny purred. "I know your devious little mind well enough by now to be able to-"

She was gone. Gone in the wink of an eye, and for half a second Harry entertained thoughts of some terrible plot on Voldemort's plight, a Portkey, some similar device- and then reason took over, and his eyes caught up with his brain, and he saw her, plummeting vertiginously on her old Comet broom down towards the pitch below. Drawing back his lips from his teeth, he dived after her. His broom was the superior in every way, and he could easily overtake her… but where had she seen the Snitch? In vain his eyes scanned the area she was heading for. How had she seen it? He was sure he'd been as focused as her.

Pure luck. That had to be it. And there it was! Harry leant forward, plunging down almost vertically. Seamus had seen the two of them now, and was much closer to the tiny sphere than either one of the more experienced Seekers, but, not having apparently taken yet to the idea of moving in three dimensions, was trying to force his way _through_ a scrimmage of Chasers and Quaffle to get to their target area.

Harry streaked past Ginny, his eyes bright with exhilaration, and dived. Just then, when he was within twenty metres of it, the Golden Snitch seemed to come to its senses and jerked away, zooming through the mess of other players. Harry swore, rolling round on his broom and pulling out of his dive in what would have been a near-perfect Wronski feint, if it weren't for the fact that it wasn't a feint at all, and, tucking himself in low, flew _under_ the tangle of brooms and legs. Behind him, he heard Ginny turn the air very blue indeed as she fought to stop her own descent, and flushed. He hadn't meant to put her in any danger. Still, he could feel her on his tail again as he shot up through a gap in the players and almost collided with Seamus, coming the other way. He was rubbing his ear, and wincing as blood oozed from a shallow nick in it.

"What happened?" Harry came to a halt. The Snitch had vanished for now. Seamus grimaced.

"Caught the Snitch," he said, and, seeing Harry and Ginny's incredulous looks, added, "With my bleedin' earhole."

"Well, I hope you didn't damage its wings," Ginny remarked primly, and tilted her broom upwards again. "Harry," she added as the three of them- Seamus having apparently learned from his mistakes- journeyed back up into the skies, "About that Feint…"

"It was an accident," he almost fell over his words. "I'm sorry Gin… are you ok? Is your broom all right? I didn't think about the ground, I…"

"Harry!" She silenced him with the word. "Can I finish? I was going to ask how to do it properly? I tried one or two last term, but never managed to convince the other Seeker I meant it."

"Ah." Harry considered as he went back to leaning over his broom, watching the game below. "To be honest, I think it's best if you do it by accident, Gin." He laughed. "And a bit of suicidal insanity always helps."

"Ah. I'll never be able to compete then," she said in mock-tragic tones.

The rain seemed to be easing off as they sat up there, and the sun was beginning to show some kindness to the players. Down below, Ron had finally managed to extricate his team from the tangle that had so inconvenienced the Seekers above, and the north team had the distinct advantage. Harry was pleased to note that the red-topped speck down below had not let any goals through at his end of the game, even though most of Ron's attention seemed to be fixed on the three Seekers above. He waved down, irreverently, luxuriating in the joy of the flight, and after a moment reined in his concentration sharply.

Focus, Potter.

Ginny was clearly a Seeker to be reckoned with. She'd spotted the Snitch first then, tiny and distant… and barely moving. He frowned. It was always a flurry of movement where there should be none that alerted him to the tiny gold thing's movement. How had she done it?

Focus, Potter.

Then, like a flash, it came to him. He remembered what she'd said in the summer about 'feeling' magic. Of course. Harry was always alert when looking for the Snitch, his mind absolutely focused on spotting it… but there were other ways. He might not have Ginny's particular sensitivity, but he had known that particular Snitch for a long time, like an old friend. He let go his mind, hoping that the ball wouldn't choose that particular moment to make itself obvious, feeling outwards, casting his mind back to the wonderful feeling of the Snitch in his hand, small and alive, nestling against his skin as he caught it… alive with magic.

Harry waited, letting that feeling, letting that sense of _what_ the Snitch was fill his mind, and opened his eyes again, looking over the pitch, not looking _for_ anything, but _seeing_ every movement, ignoring his conscious mind's promptings… and… that… felt… right…

Before he had finished the thought he was off, leaning down his broom and streaking towards one particular flicker of movement at the far end of the pitch, one movement that somehow registered in the back of his brain as _different_ to the others. In one and a half-seconds Ginny and Seamus were diving after him, and in that time his brain had recognised the little ball by more normal means… but that one and a half-second lead was crucial. Then the Snitch was moving again, seemingly random, but steered by myriad complex micro-magic algorithms in the charms which were cast about it. No one had ever managed to predict their logic paths, but an experienced Seeker could sometimes guess what was on the little dot's 'mind'. As Ginny aimed herself dead-centre at the Snitch, and Seamus followed her doggedly, Harry sheered off to the right, expecting it to make a sudden dash that way, which would put it right in his grasp.

He was wrong. As so often, the Golden Snitch decided to be perverse, and swung in a great arc to the left. He almost lost. Ginny had held to her original course, dead centre on the Snitch, and now leant left to catch it- but Seamus, still trying to emulate the more experienced Seekers, had followed Harry to the right and now, behind Ginny but on a faster broom, he twisted sharply to the left to compensate… and swept narrowly by Ginny's tail. She spun, wrenching herself back under control just in time, and Harry, rolling and putting any hope of controlled flight behind him, swung down, round underneath them, and up, seizing the Snitch in one hand barely a foot from her own.

"YES!" He shouted, holding the thing up above his head, and hearing a whistle blow somewhere at the north end of the pitch. As the other players approached, he looked round. Seamus was apologising to Ginny, who waved it off.

"Don't be a twit, Seamus. I should have been watching my tail- and I should have grabbed the Snitch first and sorted out my tailspin later, anyhow. Well done, Harry," she smiled. "You're a quick study," she added, enigmatically, and broadened the smile into a grin as Ron floated along. "Looks like you've found your Seeker, brother mine," she finished.

"We'll see," Ron rejoined, with a thoughtful look on his face. "Now then…" he waited until the other players- several of the newcomers looking distinctly battered and bruised- had gathered around. Then he began.

* * *

It was late evening when the group- most of them by now rubbing bruises in a few places- made their way back to Gryffindor Tower. Ron had been inspired by Ginny's attempt to try for Seeker, and had made every player and hopeful who had arrived try for at least three of the four possible positions in the game. Harry had- after the Quaffle had bounced off his forehead for the fourth time and _still_ been knocked through a hoop seconds later- resolved to never, ever, even think anything less than complimentary about Ron's goalkeeping skills again. He made a competent Chaser, at least, he reflected. He hadn't dropped the ball, which was more than could be said for Neville. Ron was keeping the cards close to his chest, but Harry had, more because he had nothing else to do as Keeper than keep tally of his cuts and bruises, been trying to decide who he would have picked for the team.

Probably himself as Seeker, he reflected- or Ginny. Truth be told, he couldn't honestly be sure who had the greater instinctive talent for the position- he was very aware that he had won that first time by fluke alone. Still, out of three other essays for the Snitch the two of them had practised during the afternoon, he had won two. So, he supposed, experience hopefully still gave him the slight edge. That would make Ginny a Chaser, along with Seamus and either Colin or Clare Jacques. Kirke and Sloper were, unfortunately, still the only two credible Beaters- no one else seemed to have the right build and strength for the position, apart from Neville, who panicked far too much in the heat of the game. Ron he would keep as Keeper. Harry rather suspected that the pre-occupation of Captaincy, not to mention the responsibility for the team, which would leave the boy focused on something other than his own skills on the pitch, would improve Ron's erratic goalkeeping no end. Still, he wasn't Captain, and he was happy to leave this particular bit of planning to Ron.

I have enough on my plate, thanks all the same.

"Probably a good thing," he remarked to himself."

"Talking to yourself, Harry," Ginny commented over her shoulder.

"I mean," Harry elaborated, "If you're that good a Seeker I ought to start learning something else."

"Ron's not going to move you," she laughed. Harry caught up with her and gave her a penetrating look. Ron and Hermione were at the head of the group, quite a way in front, but still he lowered his voice.

"It doesn't… really upset you, does it?" he asked, worriedly. If someone had asked him a year or so ago if he would ever be prepared to give up being Seeker, he'd probably have laughed in their face. Ginny shook her head.

"Like you not being a Prefect, you mean?" she challenged. "Harry, remember what I said about… certain people," she lowered her own voice, since Seamus Finnegan was not that far ahead. "Quidditch isn't a matter of life and death. Besides, you're leaving the year after next." she added cheekily.

"Oh, and you're looking forward to that, are you?" He raised his eyebrows, and grinned at her. Ginny flushed slightly.

"Don't do a Gred and Forge on me, Potter," she gave him a hard look. "I can still change my mind about _what_ to show you tomorrow, remember."

"Ah yes, tomorrow," Harry tilted his head sideways. "I'd give a few crates of Butterbeer to know what's going on inside that mind of yours… or would it make me run away screaming?" He smirked at her. "Although I'm sure this secret of yours can't be as fascinating to try to figure out as you are."

Ginny gave him a sidelong look.

"Well, Mr Potter," she breathed, with a straight face. "One might almost think you were flirting with me."

Harry's world stopped turning for a moment.

The rational, cold part of his brain- or so it claimed to be, at any rate- suggested several possible responses to Ginny's observation. The rest of his mind, which was currently rather less capable of intellectual reasoning than it had been the very first time he had met Voldemort, dithered. Finally, he selected an option, and ordered all the seven thousand voices in his brain shrieking about caution and common sense to shut up.

"Yes," he said in a very dry tone, "One might think that indeed." He was rewarded by a slow blush spreading across Ginny's face, and a small sound halfway between a whimper and a squeak. He waited five seconds. "My sentiments precisely," he told her briskly, and turned smartly forward again, hearing her fall into step beside him, neither trusting themselves to look each other in the eye.

They had fallen some way behind the rest of the party, and the sun was setting over the castle when they came up into the Entrance Hall. There, almost without a word, they separated- Ginny had homework to do, he knew from earlier, and had decided to forego the evening meal in favour of a few sandwiches Harry had persuaded Dobby to provide for her. She took his broom for him, and set off across the hall floor. Then, just as Harry was about to go in to the meal, she turned.

"Good night, Harry.", Ginny said in an uncertain voice, "See you in the morning."

* * *

**TheDragonBard - **Fair point on Gillyweed, I thought I remembered it but was, in fact, remembering something totally different. Regarding** That Weasley...** well, the note on my profile- which I'll probably move to an Author's Note at the start of the story expresses my own opinion. Consider it an AU thing. After all, it's no more 'wrong' than the whole story will be after 31st July. :-)

**(Douglas Adams: "I'd far rather be happy than right, any day.")**

**Kif**_** -** _Thanks for the review. I have plans for the plot that should keep me going for the rest of this Hogwarts year, and (in theory) the next one as well.


	15. Family Ties

****

Chapter Fifteen: Family Ties

Tick.

It's Saturday night.

Tock.

It's Sunday morning.

Tick.

Help.

Tock.

Everyone else is asleep.

Tick.

For them it's still Saturday.

Tock.

The day is mine.

Tick.

Well, for a few hours.

Tock.

But will he wake soon?

Tick.

But soon she'll wake up.

Tock.

Then it's our day.

Tick.

Then we'll have to try something.

Tock.

It's like the world spins around him, and I'm caught breathless…

Tick.

… waiting to see if she feels about me…

Tock.

… how I feel about him.

Tick.

This is idiotic!

Tock.

Don't be so silly.

Tick.

You both know exactly how you feel.

Tock.

Yeah, but I don't know if I'm the only one who knows how I feel.

Tick.

Maybe we should just keep it at a game.

Tock.

A beautiful dream.

Tick.

Too late for that, luckily.

Tock.

If you don't say something tomorrow, after you've both come this far… there'll never be another chance.

Tick.

Why did we have to say those things?

Tock.

Because we both wanted to.

Tick.

I know what my heart wants, but my head doesn't agree.

Tock.

I don't want to lose my dream.

Tick.

Then it's time to decide, mate. Whom do you love the most?

Tock.

Heh, 'whom'. Hermione would be proud of me.

Tick.

Focus.

Tock.

The dream, or your soul mate?

Tick.

Wait a moment, 'Say something tomorrow'! It's today! No more tomorrows to hide behind.

Tock.

I don't want to face this without a night's sleep.

Tick.

What do I say?

Tock.

It's not like my romantic track record's good.

Tick.

One relationship, one break-up.

Tock.

But then… how many single people have more relationships than break-ups?

Tick.

Logic.

Tock.

Hate logic.

Tick.

I… have… got… to… get… some… sleep.

Tock.

That clock is really getting on my wand!

Tick.

"Animata Mechanus Interrupta!"

To-ker-sproiii-eck.

Tock? No tock. Thought not. Good night, clock.

* * *

The mid-morning light was playing across the curtains and drapes in the Sixth Year Boys' dormitory, and Harry was watching the dust-motes dance and wondering when his alarm would sound when he became sufficiently awake to realise that all the other beds were empty. Alarmed himself, he pushed himself up on one elbow. No sign of a struggle… then a more prosaic explanation occurred, and he glanced at his clock- and winced. No tick or tock. The hands and internal mechanism were locked in place, the faint tell-tale glint and shimmer of a mechanical suspension spell shining around it, and his wand lay on the table next to it, vibrating gently in sympathy with its spell.

"Finite incantatem," Harry yelled, kicking back the covers and scrambling out of bed. As he tore off his pyjama top and splashed water over his face, a frantic clicking and scraping indicated the clock making up for lost time. Not willing to wait for it, he snatched a wizarding wristwatch up from Neville's bedside table, and read "Missed breakfast, and nicked someone else's watch." in mounting horror. Putting the watch down, he brushed his teeth while panicking, and chewed through around half the bristles of his toothbrush in the process, before running back to his bed and fumbling in his trunk for clean clothes. By now, the clock was hurrying its way between eight o'clock and nine, and showing no sign of slowing down yet.

"Bloody hell on a tricycle!"

He pulled on a pair of black jeans that had seen sterling service in the Forbidden Forest, a red shirt and a pair of red and green socks- fortunately not enchanted, and, pushing his feet into the nearest matching pair of shoes under his bed, saw the clock come to a halt at half-past ten and then resume its normal steady pace. Tremendously grateful that Ginny hadn't specified a particular time, but at the same time anxious that he might be seen to be avoiding her, he made a vain effort (both in execution and motivation, he supposed) to curse his hair into some semblance of neatness, and took the stairs down to the common room four at a time. He burst out into the large room and looked round wildly. Across the room, Ron and Neville were playing a desultory game of chess on the table by the window. Ron looked up.

"Ten-thirty two and… thirty-six and a half seconds," he remarked. "Neville, you owe me a Butterbeer." Neville pushed back his own shirtsleeve to check the time, and groaned slightly at his bare wrist.

"It's on your bedside table," Harry told him distractedly, quickly checking over all the easy chairs and settees around the fireplace for any evidence of Ginny. "I left Trevor guarding it," he added.

"Oh well," Ron sighed. "This game's going nowhere." He indicated the chessboard. "I think I'll put in a bit of flying practice before Tuesday. Coming, Harry?"

Harry shook his head.

"Have you seen your sister anywhere?" he asked. Ron looked blank.

"Small, redhead," Harry added in slightly acid tones, a little aggrieved with Ron and Neville for not having woken him up. "Prettier than you, and answers to the name of Ginny. Ring any bells?"

"Oh, right." Ron rolled his eyes. "She's not come down yet either." He fixed his friend with a look. "I don't want to know what was going on last night, all right, or why you're both so tired. Whatever it is, it does not exist in my universe."

"Ron!" Harry snapped, face flaming. "Can't anyone in this place just leave us alone for a minute?"

Ron gave him a sly look, and continued packing up the chess pieces as Neville headed back up to the Boys' Dormitory to collect his watch and, presumably, check on Trevor.

Just then, six percussive thunderclaps sounded from somewhere overhead, echoing down the staircase from the Girls' Dorm. Ron's grin expanded.

"Little sis is awake," he informed Harry. "If her hair looks a fright, _don't_ tell her it looks nice. You'd look funny with a carrot hanging off your forehead." With those words, he slipped out of the portrait hole, and was gone.

Harry sighed, sitting on the settee which faced the stairs up to Ginny's room, and trying not to fidget. In some ways, waiting for her was more terrifying that thinking that he was late. At least then he'd been doing something. Now he could only sit, playing various possible outcomes of the day through in his head. Some made him cringe, others made him blush, and then wince as more cautious voices told him how unlikely they were.

In a comparatively short time, Ginny stumbled down the stairs, and was half-way to the portrait hole when Harry's soft cough caused her to spin round.

"Ah." She looked past his left ear. "Good morning."

He considered her. Funny, he mused, when he'd been around Cho he'd noticed how she looked the whole time. With Ginny- well, he'd always have said she was pretty, if asked… but somehow or other that never seemed to matter as much as her being _there_. Her hair was a bit out-of-shape, draggled a little untidily over one shoulder, stray gingery ends spilling across her black Muggle t-shirt and brown velvet waistcoat- which didn't really go with the calf-length dark green skirt she'd put on beneath it, but she could have looked like a Blast-Ended Skrewt, and she'd still have been pretty- no, more important, she'd still have been Ginny. She was also glaring at him.

"Sorry, what was that?" he realised he'd missed her last few words.

"I said, sorry I'm late," she grimaced. "Clock. Mistake. Error."

"I heard the explosions."

"The clock will not make the mistake again."

* * *

Wizards have their own methods of communication, which Muggles know not. These vary from the sublime threads of Hasperis, which were spun by Poppaea the Whisperer in the twilight of the Roman Empire, and stretched through the fields and roads surrounding Ancient Rome, invisible, unbreakable and taut, and on which one had but to whisper the name to whose owner one would speak, and the message one would deliver, for it to be done, to the ridiculous golden trumpeter elves of Switzerland, who were employed for a time to climb mountains and shout important messages down into the valleys below- until, in fact, it was pointed out that creatures made from a heavy soft metal were ill-suited for climbing up mountains. They subsequently invented the concept of the Post Office, and their symbol to this day adorns post boxes across Europe. This brief aberration aside, it was unusual for wizards- especially purebloods- to use the technological tricks of long-distance communication invented by Muggles. Where they did, they were usually only elaborate disguises for some other wizarding device.

None the less, there was a red telephone box in Hogsmeade. It was rarely used, but since the little town also effectively served as the electoral constituency for wizards across the United Kingdom, it was occasionally necessary for 'in-the-know' Muggle officials of the Government or Secret Service to visit the town, and so the box had been provided as a courtesy sometime in the nineteen fifties, and used around nine times since then. It had become a tradition for users of the box to mark their call on a chalked tally next to the receiver. The box had, in fact, been vandalised more often than it had been used, although this was in no way remarkable for any telephone box anywhere. Most of the vandalism, Aloysius Milner knew, had been perpetrated by a certain foursome of students a year or so older than him during his school years. There was, he discovered, also a tally chart for this, inscribed on the ceiling, with the tallies divided amongst crude drawings of a stag, a dog, something that was either another dog, a wolf, or possibly a badly drawn squirrel, and some sort of mouse or gerbil.

He had used the phone box once before, shortly after arriving at Hogwarts a couple of weeks ago, to call the same number he was planning to call now. Not that it was necessary- more conventional (at least, to a wizard) forms of communication would have kept him in contact just as easily, but could also be spied upon with alarming ease. A telephone could be tapped, but any half decent wizard- and Milner prided himself on being at least three-fifths decent- could detect and counter that, and besides, the chances of the Ministry of Magic even _thinking_ to eavesdrop on so prosaic a means of communication were low.

He lifted the receiver, and dialled a number. Reception was never good- they were right on the edge of the Hogwarts' protective wards, and although far enough from the epicentre for so simple a piece of technology as a telephone to actually work at all, interference was quite significant. Then he waited for the prompt, and dropped a couple of Muggle coins into the slot. After a moment, came the gabbled and Glaswegian response.

"Good Morning, National Rail Enquiries, which station are you travelling from?"

"The past."

A slight pause, then the voice spoke again, in slightly more cautious tones.

"And where are you travelling to?"

"The pub."

"Can I ask how you'll be travelling to the station, sir?"

"By broomstick. Look, you can drop the act. How any idiot Muggle ever thinks this is a genuine enquiry line I do not know, lassie." Milner huffed.

"We use the proper timetable when we answer them!" she sounded offended.

"Aye, last year's, usually. Look here, Donna, can ye no jus' put me through to that thar editor of yourn?"

"Would you hold on a moment sir, I'm just transferring your call."

Milner waited. Finally, with a click, someone spoke into the other end of the line.

"Lovegood?" The Defence Professor glanced up and down the street through the tiny windows of the phone box,and spoke in his own accent. "Good. Yes, listen… yes, it is me…. Yes, that me. Milner," he added, in a strained tone. "Listen, Lovegood," He paused a moment. "We're on to something. I can't… be more specific at the moment." Another pause. "Well, largely because I've got no bloody idea!" he snapped, a little tetchily, and wrinkled his eyebrows aggressively at the receiver. "Thaumaturgical activity's what Florence's old papers suggested, and the instability's even higher than either of us anticipated. Yes… no, I don't think it's going to be as simple as that. No, no… no, probably… yes, that's what I'm beginning to suspect as well." He peered back up the road. "Someone's coming… no, only a local resident. Still, we'd best cut this short."

* * *

Harry and Ginny were walking by the lakeside, Harry swinging a large bag from his shoulder, containing the probably over-generous picnic lunch Dobby had packed for them both. He felt rather guilty asking favours from the eccentric little House Elf, but the excitement and pleasure he triggered in Dobby just by wandering into the kitchens was almost enough to make up for it.

They'd gone to visit the Giant Squid in its 'Convalescence Pond', as someone had nicknamed it- the same place the students had lifted it to in the early stages of the Amoeba Vendetta attack, since no one had really felt like levitating it again, and concluded that when it was well enough to venture out into the deeper waters of the lake proper, it would be perfectly capable of dealing with the little matter of the wall for itself. Hagrid had assured them that the creature was doing very well, considering its ordeal, and attempted to press them to join him for a snack, but the two had both declined and set off- Harry being sure he'd seen a slight knowing grin make its way through his old friend's bushy beard as they went off. Now, Ginny was leading him down a little path he'd not noticed before, which had cut across the clearing where he'd encountered Snape, and continued on through a light fringe of woods along the lakeshore.

"This secret isn't a homicidal aquarium for magical jellyfish-things?" he asked, after they stopped on the slopes of a narrow bay, and Ginny gazed thoughtfully out into the water for a moment. "Because saving the school's a bit less impressive if it was your pet that endangered it in the first place."

"Well, Tommy got an award for it," Ginny shrugged, "Why shouldn't we?"

"True," Harry reflected. "It isn't though, is it?" he added, looking slightly alarmed. Ginny smirked at him.

"Clot. Of course not."

"All right then, what is it?"

"You're looking at it." She folded her arms and gave a sly little grin, nodding her head out towards the lake.

"Uh, Ginny, dearest," Harry put a hand on her arm lightly, making her blink a little, "I hate to be the one to break it to you, but the lake is… not exactly… well, how can I put it… I think one or two of the other students have noticed the thing over the years." He pulled a face at her before she could pull one at him. She did anyway, and then stepped behind him, pointing over his shoulder, with a closeness that made his pulse stagger a little, out towards a slight rise in the ground on a small headland at the southern end of the tiny bay. Harry followed the line of her finger, between two gnarled old holly trees and out into the lake.

"All right," he gave up. "What am I looking at?"

A little giggle sounded near his ear, and then she whispered, enchantingly close, "You're looking at the small building between the two trees on the headland." Harry turned his head, puzzled, to look at her, and their cheeks brushed against one another, a warm brown eye flashed past his own, and, face seemingly on fire, he jerked his head out to face the lake again, as he felt her move away and a pang of something he could neither recognise or understand. Then he looked, more for form's sake than anything else, at the trees again, and hurriedly cleaned his glasses. There it was, so plainly there that his mind hiccupped slightly at its own ignorance. Not a large building, a simple, but delicately constructed little sandstone-and-wood folly, with a conical roof and unglazed windows looking out across the lake. He turned to look at Ginny, his face puzzled. She- now standing a more respectable couple of feet away, flashed a quick, tight grin at him, and beckoned him off the path, and through a large bed of rhododendrons and holly. Avoiding thorns with what he expected to be increasing difficulty, and with a fondly resigned look on his face, Harry followed.

To his surprise, he found that, as he pushed his way after her through the bushes, the going became easier. There was a path- very overgrown, to be sure, but undeniably a path. Finally, as they came out on the headland, they stepped on to rough flagstones, and Ginny led them round a rocky way between the trees to the building.

"It's called 'Helena's Nest', she told him. In one side of the little building there was a doorway without a door to cover it, and inside a small, hexagonal room with a tiled floor and rough, sandstone chip walls framed by wooden pillars, small wooden benches set at a convenient height on each. Some of the benches had books piled upon them- exercise books in the main, faded with age. A time-worn doll lay on one of them, its rough, homemade clothes faded almost colourless, and the hair on its head thin and untidy.

"I'd almost forgotten," Ginny breathed, in a strange, sad tone of voice, and then seemed to pull herself upright. "Well, come in, Harry. This is yours as well now." Harry entered, expecting to have to duck his head slightly under the entrance, and pleased to find that he didn't have to. About five people could have stood in the Nest without touching, if they stood very still, but even two alone were always close to one another. Ginny looked round, and gave Harry a curious, urgent look.

"Do you like it?" she asked.

Harry lowered his bag to the ground, and looked around. The small building had a strange atmosphere to it, it was true- but a welcoming one. It… felt… like Ginny. He could sense her presence here, not just here and now but many times, and curiously overlaid with others. There was something else. Although built with precision, and purely ornamental, except perhaps as a shelter from light rain, there was something about Helena's Nest which reminded him irresistibly of the Burrow.

"Yes," he told her slowly. "Yes, I think so."

She beamed at him.

"Look at this." Ginny knelt on the window seat and pointed up to an engraved inscription on the lintel above it. Harry came closer, leaning forward, resting one hand on her shoulder to steady himself.

"Helena's Nest was built by the hands and mind of Jonas Prewett, D.A.D.A. Hog. 1742 (Hufflepuff), with that hope that Helena Merienchamps, D.A.D.A. Hog 1743, Headmistress (Gryffindor) might ever be able to find peace and rest here, though the world without be troubled and dark, and that she might ever be sheltered to look upon the lake we love so much. May it be a place of rest, of calm, of love, and of peace from the world for our children, and our children's children."

He read.

Ginny turned her head to look at him.

"You know my mother was a Prewett before she married, of course?" she smiled lightly.

Harry nodded, and frowned.

"I'd never really thought about it before… but yes." A thought flashed into his head, remembering those who had fallen in Voldemort's last reign of terror. A shadow must have passed across his face, because Ginny took his hand and squeezed it, saying fiercely,

"Yes…" she looked at him with fire blazing in her eyes, "But don't speak of it here. This place is not his to tear down."

Harry looked at her in silence for a moment and, not knowing what else to do, took her other hand in his free hand, and held it tightly in return. For a long moment they clung to one another in this way, and then, her eyes suddenly slipping past his, Ginny said, in an entirely different tone of voice, sliding free from his hands as she did so and turning him to follow her,

"And here… look here," she crouched down and peered beneath the opposite bench, drawing her wand from a pocket in her waistcoat and flourishing it. "Lumos." Harry knelt- trying to ignore small memos from his knees which said that yesterday's Quidditch had been quite enough for them for the moment- and peered under the bench. There were carvings there too, he realised- less ornate or neat than the wording over the window- some simply symbols, some messages, all seemingly cut into the soft stone by more or less skilled wandwork of generations of visitors.

"Look at that one," Ginny said, in a queer, proud little voice, and the wand light diminished to a point. Harry looked. It was a heart, roughly drawn, and about the size of his fist. Within its circumference was cut the simple inscription: M.P. & A.W. 1965. He looked at her with a question in his eyes, but before she had a chance to answer, the question had resolved itself.

"Molly Prewett and Arthur Weasley," he mulled it over. "The date's right, isn't it?" Ginny nodded, returning her wand to her pocket.

"Mum told me where to find it," she explained. "It was just… a quiet place. Somewhere to sit away from the madness when they were at school." She flushed, seeing his expression. "If it was ever anything… else, Harry, I do not wish to know, and I sincerely doubt Mum would tell me anyway."

He nodded, and a thought struck him.

"So… this place has been here for about two hundred and fifty years… just for your family?" He frowned. "How come no one else has… how come it's not mentioned in the school archives… or in Hogwarts, A History?"

"Harry, I doubt anyone but Hermione has ever actually read that thing," Ginny laughed, sitting on a bench opposite the lake view and moving the pile of her possessions into a corner. "Besides… they wouldn't have known. Jonas Prewett didn't build it for the Headmistress, he built it for the woman he was going to marry- who just happened to be the Headmistress. I don't think it's even formally part of the school or anything. But he put it under a charm to keep it calm and peaceful and a refuge for them, and their children."

"The Fidelius Charm…" Harry gave her a shrewd look. It added up with what had happened outside- how he'd simply looked straight through the little Nest until Ginny had told him it was there. She nodded, then qualified it.

"Not exactly. I think they changed it a bit- or maybe the spell was changed _after_ they made this one- it's quite a while ago, after all." She gestured for him to sit next to her. "It was left in trust to one of their children, Mum told me, and so on down. They could tell one other person, just one, that they wanted to share it with… and also one of their own children, so that it would pass down. The trick," she scratched her forehead, "Is that when Mum told me, as her descendant, I somehow became the Secret Keeper instead of her. That's how it passes down. Dad will still know, but if Mum hadn't told him when they were at school, she wouldn't be able to tell anyone now." She waited a moment, and looked a little apologetic.

"It was just before my second year," she told him. "I was feeling a bit wretched after all that diary business, and Mum thought it would be good if I could just have somewhere- somewhere private I could go to that was… part of the family. She and Dad wouldn't exactly use it any more, after all. I didn't really register that it was the Fidelius or anything at the time- she just told me that it was a family secret. I only really thought it through and worked out what charm it was after Professor Dumbledore brought us all to Grimmauld Place." She gave a sad little smile. "I came here a lotsecond year and the next."

Harry tried to find somewhere to look. He felt guilt biting in to him, guilt for shutting her out. She saw him, and gave a mock-scowl, punching him on the arm.

"Don't be a dunce, Harry. How were you lot to know I was feeling left out? Besides, who'd want his friend's baby sister hanging round his neck all day?"

"I can think of worse punishments," Harry murmured.

"Well, Mr Potter," Ginny grinned mischievously at him, "When you work out what they are, you'd better let me know. People do keep saying how creatively vengeful I can be."

"Those that can still talk without steam emerging from various orifices do, yes." He favoured her with a deliberately straight face, and Ginny wrinkled her nose at him.

"Anyway," she said, "I didn't think I'd actually want to share it with anyone- well, obviously when I was younger I daydreamed about sharing it with some handsome young wizard who'd sweep me off my feet," she rolled her eyes, "… but when I actually started going out with Michael it seemed more like somewhere I'd want to use to get a bit of time to myself, if I wanted to be on my own but couldn't think of a decent excuse… and now, here I am, showing it to someone." She finished, and found it her turn to be uncertain quite what to do with her eyes.

Harry Potter looked out at the lake for several long moments, and then back at the young witch by his side. He tried several ways to say something in his head, but none of them exactly worked. Still, that was life, wasn't it? Plans go astray, the perfect mirrors are broken, and in the end all that you have is what life leaves you to enjoy, and what you forge for yourself out of that. A best approximation. And the heart matters more than the tongue.

"I said…" he began, hesitantly, "I said that I didn't think this secret of yours could possibly be as fascinating as you are." He paused. A slight colour rose in her cheeks- and his too, in sympathy, but he fought the urge to look away, to give her feelings privacy.

If I take away the share of your heart that you give me with your eyes, then I gladly give whatever you can see in mine.

"In the end though, I think that's what I've seen- a look into the mind of Ginny Weasley."

"Are you scared yet?" the banter came, almost out of habit, but with a fondness to its edge.

"Oh yes," he told her, honestly. "Scared because I can see something so precious, and so wonderful, and because I have no idea if I can ever do anything to deserve it."

Ginny's eyes widened- she had, plainly, because he had known, and had learned many times how closely their thoughts tended to run on many things, known what was to come, but now, to hear it spoken aloud…

He knew that a lifetime had ended, and another begun. Whether that was good or bad, and what tomorrow might bring, he could hardly say. All that he did know for certain was that it would be- in more senses than the usual- magic.

After a long silence, Ginny cleared her throat.

"By the way, Harry," she remarked in a casual tone of voice, whilst attempting to unpack Dobby's sandwiches using only a few of her brain cells and a third of one of her hands, "Didn't the Headmaster say something about a Hogsmeade Weekend coming up in a few weeks?"

Harry nodded, and helped her with the sandwiches. Two thirds of two different hands made only slightly faster progress, largely because the other fingers of both hands were extremely interested in finding the various ways they might brush against the hand to which the visiting fingers from the other hand belonged. Why such thoughts might preoccupy their fingers at this time, neither Harry or Ginny particularly considered. The complex matter of coherent speech was taking up rather too much of their time for that sort of abstract psychoanalysis of digits.

"Yes, I think so," Harry mused. "The end of September, I think he said. Little Tommy permitting, of course. In about a fortnight."

"Ah." Ginny pondered this for a while, as they unwrapped the sandwiches and started to eat.

A thought struck Harry.

"I wonder, Miss Weasley," he asked, casually, "Would you like to go down to Hogsmeade with me then?" he smiled. "It might be nice to have some more civilised company than Ron and Hermione, for a change, I thought."

"But you couldn't find anyone civilised, so you might as well ask me," Ginny rejoined. "Actually, you know what, Harry?" She paused to eat a sandwich. Around two minutes later- or twenty lifetimes, if one counted in Harry's terms, "That would be a nice idea. A very nice idea."

"Let's do that, then."

"Let's."

It was early evening, and a chill wind had finally driven two young people away from their long and comfortable conversation in Helena's Nest and back on the path to the castle and their dinner. In the main, they had talked of childhood- that which Ginny had had and Harry had lacked, and also of those precious and sparse- especially before his eleventh birthday- moments of happiness that had shone against the dark of Harry's own youth. At some point, some painful memory had made him turn his face away, and she had set her hand in his, and it was only now, as they each took a handrail by the steps up to the castle doorway, that their fingers parted. Stiff from each hand's long grip upon the other, each flexed their fingers and exchanged a wry look, which dissolved into a smile.

It was half an hour before dinner, and they had decided to return first to Gryffindor Tower- Ginny had brought back some belongings from the Nest which she wanted to put away in safety before losing them again, and both preferred that any inevitable comments on their long absence together from their fellow Gryffindors should be passed in the common room, rather than in front of the entire student body in the Great Hall. Thus, they headed for the Tower together. They did not, however, arrive together.

As they- walking now in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, approached a crossroads in the corridors, they heard a shout from ahead- a girl's voice, crying out in pain and anger. Each quickened their step. Then, another voice, taunting, cruel. Harry drew his wand almost instinctively, his lip curling into a snarl.

"Malfoy," he growled, deep under his breath.

"Let go of me!"

Ginny and Harry exchanged a look.

"Luna," Ginny mouthed.

As they came to the crossroads, to their right they saw Draco, alone, twist Luna's schoolbag from her arm and bend her arm behind her back. She had already dropped her wand, and he had pushed her some way away from it down the corridor.

"Let me go, Draco," Luna repeated, her usually unworldly calm now more than a little fractured. Draco twisted his lip nastily, and pushed her against the wall.

"Just tell me something, Loony," he was saying- and Harry saw that the boy's wand was gripped in his hand as he held her. "Just tell me what you and your friends are up to in that little club of yours?" He pushed her harder against the wall. Ginny drew her own wand, and stood beside Harry, some sixth sense holding them back, waiting their moment. "Come on… tell me and I'll give you a kiss…"

Luna hissed at that, and pushed back, her glasses coming off as she turned, and said possibly the sanest thing she'd ever uttered in her life.

"I'd sooner kiss a three-day-dead mandrake root," she snarled at him, pushing her thick lensed glasses back up her nose.

As her vision was momentarily blocked, Draco lashed out, shoving her hard backwards. She staggered against the wall, and found herself looking down Malfoy's wand.

"Things change, Loony," he grated. "And minds- if you've got one, aren't that hard to--"

He got no further. Harry and Ginny had already started out of the corridor, black thoughts in each of their minds, but they too, got no further. From the shadows opposite them, a furious shout came:

"EXPELLIARMUS!" A flash of red light tore Draco's wand from his hand and sent it skittering down the corridor. He looked round wildly, saw Harry and Ginny, and assumed that to be the source of the attack- but as he dived for his wand- ignoring Professor Milner's warning earlier in the term, Milner himself stepped out of the shadow. "VIOS WALL!" Milner snarled, his face mottled and purple, eyes starting from their sockets, his thinning hair wild. Malfoy was flung back against the stone with awful force, and cried out in pain. Milner advanced, prowling cat-like, his breath coming in ragged jerks, eyes fixed on Malfoy, nothing human in them but absolute, total, unrelenting rage.

"Compressor!" Milner growled, forcing Malfoy hard against the stone as he advanced. The blonde Slytherin writhed uselessly against the spell. As Milner passed her, Luna snatched up her glasses and wand and, leaving her bag of books, fled. Draco saw his own death in the Dark Arts Professor's eyes, and started to scream. So it was that Harry and Ginny alone heard the next word Milner spoke, very quietly, but with dreadful intent.

"Avada…"

"No!" Harry reacted in the only way he could see that could work, in the half second he had available to him- he charged up to the wall and kicked Malfoy hard in the shins.

"What… I…" He heard Milner choke in confusion, and then the spell had released Malfoy, and the boy tumbled forward, Harry punching his chest and arms as hard as he could, all the while keeping his back as a shield between the Slytherin boy and Aloysius Milner's wand.

"Professor!" Ginny ceased him by the arm. All the rage had drained from Milner's face in a moment, as Harry had interceded, and that same wand lay- unknown to Harry, at Milner's feet, his hand open. The Professor stared, almost uncomprehending, at his fingers. "Professor!" She shook him. "Hadn't you better stop them? Students- fighting- in the corridors… you're a teacher!" She slapped him hard around the face, just as Harry had hauled Malfoy back to his feet and punched him in the ribs.

"Yes… erm… er… stop it!" Milner began, before raising the volume. "Stop right now! Mr Potter! Mr Potter!" Thankfully, hearing the change in the Professor's tone, Harry released the winded Draco, who staggered back and leant against the wall, his eyes wide and stunned.

Milner advanced, his face pale now, but fighting the hesitancy in his voice. "What… er… what do the two of you think you're doing? Fighting like this in the corridors?" He glared at Harry. "Five points from Gryffindor… and detention with me, now, this evening." Malfoy started to speak, and Milner rounded on him. "As for you…" and now the Professor was himself again, but this time there was control in his anger, and the old intelligence looked out from behind his eyes. "Understand me absolutely, Mr Malfoy… if I ever, ever, hear or see you threaten or molest any student in this school while I am still a teacher… then I shall see your wand broken, and you expelled or sent to Azkaban if it's the last thing I do." He leant closer to Draco, and slowly bared his teeth.

Malfoy had recovered enough of his swagger to try bluster.

"You won't be here long," he sneered- the effect a little spoiled by the terror in his eyes. "When the governors hear you tried to kill a student--"

"The governors," Harry leant in beside Milner, "will want to know why, I agree, Malfoy. They'll be pretty disgusted to hear that the student looked like he was about to use the Imperius Curse to make a girl kiss him, won't they?"

"It was just a threat!" Draco hissed, in a higher than usual voice. "You think I'm stupid enough to--"

"Life in Azkaban," Milner murmured. "That's the usual, is it not, Mr Potter? You being the expert on Death Eaters and the like, I'll be deferring to you in this wee matter, aye I will sure enough."

"Death Eaters," Harry tilted his head sideways, and looked nastily at Malfoy. "Like Lucius Malfoy, you mean? Yes…" he remarked, as a thought seemed to strike him, "That's a shame. The governors are probably very upset about how long he was on the board with them… given what's come out recently. You know, if 'Draco Malfoy' or any Malfoy made any sort of complaint, I… I really don't think they'd get a fair hearing, do you, Gin?"

Ginny came up behind Milner's other shoulder.

"No," she remarked. "Almost certainly not."

Draco fled.

As soon as the boy had vanished beyond sight and earshot, Milner heaved a deep sigh, and looked at the two of them.

"Thank you, Harry," he said, shaking his head slightly. Then he frowned. "Miss Weasley… would you find Luna for me?" He looked torn. "She wouldn't go back to her Common Room- not straight away. I…" he thought. "Look in the Owlery," he said finally. "That's where I always went, and I've told her those stories often enough," he added, almost to himself.

Ginny hesitated, eyeing Milner uncertainly. The Professor raised his hands, and kicked his discarded wand over to Harry's feet.

"Mr Potter can keep me under control, quite well enough, I assure you. Take it as a professional opinion," he quipped. "Take the wand, please, Harry- I trust you rather more than you'd be right to trust me." He hesitated. "You've a perfect right to take all this straight to the Headmaster," Milner added. "It would probably be the best thing, all in all."

"Almost certainly," Harry told him, tucking his own wand into his belt. "If you've read my class' school reports as well as you say, though," he added, "I don't know what makes you think I'm going to do what the rules say."

Milner considered that, and laughed. Then he turned to look at Ginny. She, after one last glance at Harry, who gave a slight nod, went off in the direction taken by Luna.

The two men waited alone in the corridor for a moment. Finally, Professor Milner sighed.

"Would ye be minded ter object if ah put mah arms dune, young Harry?" he enquired, from somewhere nebulous between Aberdeen and Nottingham. "Only they're being half minded ter fall off, don't yer know?"

Harry smiled in spite of himself, and Milner continued.

"My office?" he suggested. "There's tea, and ginger biscuits, and chairs suited for what I suspect is liable to be quite a long and otherwise uncomfortable chat."

* * *

**Notes:** "Helena's Nest" is (rather inexactly, right down to being built in a different century) based upon "The Queen's Nest", a small folly in the grounds of Sandringham House, part-time residence of the Royal Family, which was built for Queen Alexandra by 'a devoted General', or something like that.A little over-cute, in a Victorian sort of way, but a nice little curio that doesn't seem to be mentioned in the tourist-fodder guide books. If it was protected by the Fidelius Charm, then maybe there wouldn't be plastic sandwich wrappers and crisp bags on the floor.

The National Rail Enquiries helpline is (even more inexactly) based on the railway timetables. Allegedly. If you're lucky.

* * *

Many thanks for the reviews-

**AriKitten**, I just hope I can keep Harry in character over the next couple of chapters. I've been trying my best to make him strong without falling into the 'Super Harry' trap.

**Crookshanks,** heh, well, I thought Harry would have probably read it, given what he's living. Now, if I can just resist the temptation for him to shout "You Shall Not Pass!" at Voldemort later on, I'll be doing well. :-)

**Joe**, well, you know what the secret is now- unless something goes wrong with your scrollbar, or course. As for the origin of the Amoeba Vendetta... well, let's just say there's a chapter waiting in the wings called "Revenge of the Amoeba Vendetta"... but the Amoeba Vendetta won't be actually appearing in it. Largely because it's dead.


	16. The Past Coming Home To Roost

**Chapter Sixteen:** The Past Coming Home to Roost

"Come in, and know me better, lad." Milner paused to light one, slightly guttering oil lamp bracketed to the wall of his small office, and opened the door wider for Harry to follow him inside. The office was not the one previous Dark Arts teachers had used, near to the Defence Classroom, but a small, rather irregular l-shaped room a few floors below the corridor where he and Ginny had met Luna and Draco, and quite near to the Ravenclaw common room and dormitories- their 'Aerie', as they called it. There were two easy chairs- both rather threadbare and worn, facing a low round coffee table, its veneer cracked and bubbled in many places, and covered with unidentifiable stains and scorch marks, and a small desk and chair tucked into the narrow recess of the 'L', which made up the only walls not lined with bookshelves. Even the door and window appeared to only have just fought for their place through the straining wooden shelves. Professor Milner threw his jacket on to the back of one chair with a flourish and, in his shirt sleeves, tugged out one book from the shelves and took two teabags, a teapot, a small bottle of water, and a packet of biscuits from behind it. These he set on the table, and gestured for Harry to take the other chair. As Harry sat, a little unsure of himself, Professor Milner cleared his throat.

"Let me see… let me see… let me see… yes, yes, that was it. Well done on your quick thinking in the corridor just then by the way, Mr Potter. Ten points to Gryffindor." He smiled at Harry disarmingly. "Now then… yes… mugs, mugs, mugs." The wizard sprang to his feet and half-threw himself out of the window. Harry leapt to his feet, fearing that the stress Milner was under might have pushed him just too far, but in a moment the Professor drew himself back in through the gap, clutching two china mugs in his fingers. "Eureka, Mr Potter," Milner beamed at him.

"Look, Professor… I've been tempted to hex Malfoy out of his skull myself before now…" Harry attempted to draw Milner back to the topic at hand.

"And now you have a choice," the Professor sat down and leant forward, peering with wide-eyed disturbing intensity at Harry. "Do you trust me, hm?"

"Well… I…"

"Because if you do not…" Milner spoke ominously, and his eyes flashed. Then, suddenly, he leant back and settled in his chair, "Then ye'll hev ter make yer own tea, laddie, fer you've still cocht hold of that wand o' mine, if you do but rightly remember it."

Wordlessly, Harry drew his own wand, and started to make the tea, boiling the kettle as he watched Milner settle himself. For all Milner's foolishness, he could sense that the Professor was ill at ease- uncertain. Suddenly, he spoke.

"Do you know what happened to Luna's mother, Harry?" Milner asked, in a strange voice. Not one of his usual strange voices- in fact, quite the opposite. All the life, all the pretence, all the deflections the man used to keep people from looking him head on seemed to have drained away, and now the Professor simply sounded- tired. Tired almost to death.

"She died," Harry said sadly. "Luna told me. Several years ago- some sort of magical experiment she was working on went wrong." He looked at Milner thoughtfully. "You knew the family, Luna said once. Did you know Mrs Lovegood before…?"

"Well, I'd hardly have known her afterwards, would I?" Milner attempted, but the half smile soon faded from his face. He closed his eyes. "Florence Lovegood was the dearest friend anyone could hope to know, Harry. Brave and brilliant. She and Luna's father were perfect for each other, and they were happier together than anyone I've ever known." He rose from his seat abruptly, and walked over to the window, looking out into the night. "I didn't… I didn't know Lovegood that well back then- Florence introduced me to him at a couple of parties, I think, but to tell the truth I tended to forget in those days that my friends and colleagues actually had lives outside the laboratory. If Florence had a fault," he added, with a queer, backwards laugh, "Then it was that she tended to forget it as well."

He sighed.

"Do you know the difference between a wizard and a Thaumaturgist, Harry?"

The boy shook his head. Thaumaturgy was the study of magic… but surely that was exactly what a wizard did anyway.

"A wizard wants to know magic." Milner seemed to be warming to his theme, and the deadness was fading from his voice. "He- or she- wants to use it, to understand it in so far as to be able to use it better, and to learn new spells, bravely explore new horizons, and go boldly where no man with a small stick in his hand has gone before. A thaumaturgist is to a wizard what a car mechanic is to a driver, Harry- you were brought up by Muggles, so you'll understand the reference… or perhaps what a physicist is to a car mechanic. We want to… to understand magic, to try to find out, frankly, how on earth something that, not to put too fine a point on it, is absolutely impossible, works." He came back to the table, and took a ginger biscuit. "I'm not that good a wizard. Not a squib, by any stretch of the imagination… but I doubt I could fight a duel with any student in your year and stand much of a chance, except when I'm… irritated. Adrenaline feeds magic, Harry… but magic combined with adrenaline is a terribly addictive drug." He stopped, and fixed Harry in the eye with a look that froze his soul. "If you want to understand Tom Riddle… and yourself too, perhaps, remember that. Anger and fear, and the desire to grab the universe by the scruff of the neck and shout "No, you will NOT!" down its throat are self-destructive enough at the best of times… but people like us are in the unique position that we… we actually can. Once you've started to give in to that feeling that you don't have to take reality lying down, it's very tricky to accept anything that disagrees with your world view any more."

For a moment, the two watched each other unmoving, then, suddenly, Milner twisted away, and returned to the window.

"As I say, I'm not that good a wizard. I am, however, although I say it myself, an excellent Thaumaturgist. I raced through the post-graduate courses, and had become Head of my own little department by the time I was twenty-six. Florence, though, left me standing. She'd have had my job in a couple of years- and she'd have earned it." He shook his head, and went on in a slightly choked voice, his back turned to Harry.

"We were working on something…" a slight hesitation, and then an evasive tone entered his voice. "What it was isn't that important now, although it seemed very big at the time, to all of us. I was floundering, out of my depth, the rest of the department had long since even given up trying to grasp the fundamentals- only Florence seemed to see the path ahead- although even she admitted that she was working from instinct, not reason." He leant his arms on the windowsill, and his head bowed. Harry watched him. He could see exactly where the terrible, tragic story was going.

"She started taking more and more of the project's work on to herself. She'd work all hours- her husband and daughter used to have to play together in the little lab she'd made herself in their house in order to see her at all. I… I told her to slow down," Milner's fingernails dug into the stone, "But just as a joke- Florence slowing down would be like the sun looking the other way. She could handle the load. I knew she could, I knew in my heart that she could revolutionise magic forever, and I didn't want to stand in her way, Harry."

He tilted his head back, and Harry saw the tears running down the man's cheeks, glistening in the sunset.

"One day- it was late on a Friday, I think- I was just leaving work, when she spoke to me through the fireplace from her home." He lowered his head again, and his arms dropped from the sill, curling round each other and folding behind his back, fingers clinging bone-white to each other. "She had made a breakthrough, she thought. It might be nothing, but it might be a bit dangerous. Nothing much." He shook his head slowly. "Still, she told me, she'd like to check with me first- just in case she blew up the house, to make sure… to make sure the department would pay for any damage she had to have fixed." He turned abruptly, and his eyes were dry. The man marched back to the table and ate another biscuit, biting through it viciously.

"It was a joke." he told Harry, in a flat voice. "We laughed. I said… I said that I doubted anyone would notice _another_ explosion in her lab, and if she did knock her house down we'd just call it quits for that time she turned everyone in the department purple for three weeks. Then… then I told her that I had confidence in her, and that she should go ahead, and to let me know how she got on."

He was silent for a long time. Harry waited. Finally, as the boy began to wonder what he might say, anything to end the deadly silence, Milner told him calmly,

"Three Aurors and my director were waiting for me when I got home that evening. Florence Lovegood had died in an illegal magical experiment, and her husband and young daughter were too deep in shock to offer any explanation about what had happened. I killed her, Harry. Just as certainly as if I'd cursed her the way I nearly did young Malfoy there, in the corridor."

He turned then, took two quick steps back to the coffee table, seized his mug of tea, and hurled it out of the window.

"DAMN IT!" The middle-aged Professor sank into his chair, his head in his hands. "I meant to tell you this with rather more jokes." He breathed deeply, and then, after a moment, went on.

"Lovegood and the child were… damaged. Not by the spell, although it's a miracle they survived untouched- from what I've heard from Luna, Florence saw what was happening and put some sort of inverted shield up around herself to stop it spreading… but by the shock." He looked up suddenly, and there was something ugly behind his eyes. "Don't _ever_ refer to 'Loony Lovegood' in my hearing, Mr Potter. Not ever. It's inaccurate, apart from anything else," he added, sitting back in his chair and wearing a bright smile as genuine as the Daily Prophet. "Luna and her father are perfectly, frighteningly, terrifyingly sane. You see, that's how they coped with it- by making the world make sense again, from scratch, almost. So, if they sometimes arrive at a different conclusion from the rest of us… well, I think we can forgive that, Harry, don't you?"

Harry nodded, very gently.

"In a way, I wish she was mad…" Milner breathed. "Then I wouldn't know that she's living with the sight of what happened to her mother… each day. Each day. My fault."

"No." Harry pushed the Professor's wand across the table towards him. "She decided to do it. You said yourself, she would have known the risks if anyone did, sir."

Milner gave a half-smile- a real one, this time, and a short, quiet laugh.

"I'm afraid blame doesn't quite work that way, Mr Potter. In any case, I brought Luna up for several years, while her father… tried to find himself again. I looked after both of them. 'Uncle Aloysius', she calls me sometimes, doesn't she? She knows the truth about it, of course." He looked bitter. "She won't blame me either, Harry. I think Lovegood does- a little… but then he blames most people for most things these days."

"I think I can see why you were so angry with Malfoy," Harry said, quietly. He remembered how he had felt when Vernon had struck his aunt- and that bearing in mind how much he disliked her. Then he thought how he would feel if Voldemort hurt Ginny, or Ron, or Hermione, how he had felt when Bellatrix Lestrange killed Sirius.

Milner shook his head.

"You see a part of it, lad." He gave a sad, thoughtful smile, and flexed his fingers. "Luna's like a daughter to me- and I'll not be expectin' you ter spread that around, lad," he fixed Harry with a sudden, hard look. "There's something else though," he told him, his face growing closed. "Something I can't tell you yet."

"What sort of something?" Harry's voice hardened- almost imperceptibly, and unconsciously. He had grown very tired of secrets buried in the dark.

"There was a prophecy about you, yes… in the Department of Mysteries?" Milner looked at him with half-closed eyes, but before Harry had a chance to respond, the teacher nodded. "Don't act so surprised, Potter."

"I thought only Voldemort and I were meant to be able to touch it…" he began, but Milner waved him silent with a hand.

"I didn't say I'd heard the dratted thing," he told him. "I've walked by it though. There was another prophecy on that shelf… just a little way along- I think it was smashed when you and your friends were having your little party in there that night. Doesn't matter. I know it by heart."

Harry was moving almost before he realised it, his wand drawn.

"Is it about the war?" he asked, and stopped. Milner had folded his arms, and was looking at him in… amusement.

"Yes."

"Then tell me." Harry grit his teeth. "You don't want Voldemort to win… please help us if you can?"

"No." The professor turned his back abruptly. "I'm not a warrior, Mr Potter. Don't imagine I'm not fully aware of the Order of the Phoenix, and all your friends and their hopes and fears. For what its worth, I wish you the best of luck… but I will make that decision myself. I'll let you know when I'm ready to help."

"If it's important enough, I could make you." Harry heard himself say.

Where did this come from? He knows something. Enough lies. We have to stand together against Voldemort… why won't he help?

"No." Milner exhaled. "As a matter of fact, you couldn't. If you want to kill me, kill me. There are a few things I enjoy in life- some quite a lot… but if you're that sure that your life would be better with me dead than mine would be with me alive… then fine." He shrugged, and turned back to face Harry again, holding his hands in clear view. "It's up to you, Harry. If you want me dead, then kill me… but don't for one second imagine you can threaten to kill me to change who I am, how I live my life… because that's what being alive means to me, and trading that off for just going on breathing for a few more minutes is, frankly, not worth it."

Harry stared at him. After a moment, the Professor smiled slyly.

"Of course, there's always pain, isn't there, Harry? I couldn't stand up to torture for long, you're right… but probably for about five minutes longer than you could stand to dole it out, which is, to be honest, all I need."

Milner beamed maniacally, and jumped back to the centre of the room again.

"And there we are, back up to the present. Well, that's story time over for the night." He paused. "Off you go then, off to the Headmaster's office… or not, if you prefer." He looked oddly at Harry. "I don't know what I'd do- if our roles were reversed, I mean. Any thoughts?" He fixed Harry with a queer, manic grin.

Harry considered. He remembered the dream, remembered the world lain waste beneath the curse he had cast, remembered the hatred… remembered Janet Powell screaming as the knife cut through her body, and remembered how the scream had stopped.

Again, he remembered Bellatrix Lestrange, and the Department of Mysteries. He remembered Kreacher and the knife. He remembered the burning call of the hatred, the urge for vengeance.

"Like I said," he said, slowly, unwillingly, "It's easy to want to curse Malfoy… and there's something about the Unforgivable Curses, isn't there? Something magnetic. The main thing is, you didn't do it. About the rest of it… well, I don't know you- I don't know who you are, or what you're up to. I'm…" he trailed off, and hesitated over the sheer ridiculousness of what he was about to say. "I'm watching you."

He stood up, and walked to the door. Milner watched him with thoughtful eyes. As Harry opened the door and stepped through, the Professor said, quietly:

"But will you be there to stop me next time, Harry?"

* * *

Harry was bone-weary by the time he finally gave the password to the Fat Lady in the portrait and she swung aside. He'd missed dinner, in Milner's office, and hadn't had either the heart or the cheek to try to abuse Dobby's hospitality again. So much had happened today- so much good, in most respects, of course… but still he felt as if the sheer weight of change upon his shoulders was grinding him down into the floor.

"How did it go?" a small voice asked him, and he looked up sharply, some light and vitality flowing back into his limbs. She was sitting alone by the fire, and set down a book on top of her bag as she looked up at him. Harry smiled, and went across to her.

"All right, I think," he told Ginny. "I'll tell you later- when I've had a bit of a rest." She gave him a grin, and spread out an arm along the back of the red upright settee, indicating to him to join her. Harry sat down, slowly letting the back of his head fall against her wrist, and rolling his head to the right to contemplate her with tired eyes. "How about you? Did you find Luna?"

"Eventually." Ginny grimaced. "I took her to Cho, when she was feeling a bit more herself- made her promise to keep the rest of their house off Luna's back for a night or two."

"Thanks," Harry breathed slowly. "So much for our showing a united front to all the gossips, Gin." He grinned at her. She pulled a face.

"Don't remind me. When I turned up here without you, I don't know if Ron thought I'd cursed you, or you'd said or done something dreadful, or what. At any rate, he stormed off, furious with one of us."

"Probably my fault then," Harry observed. "I can't see him defending my honour from you, really, can you?"

"And what could I possibly do that might dishonour you, Harry Potter?" she enquired with mock indignation.

"Cough," Harry commented drily. "Lake. Cough. Half-naked. Cough. In front of whole school…"

"Sneeze." Ginny interrupted. "Fair comment. We must do it again some time." She yawned. "Some… time… after… a few months sleep."

"It's been quite a week, hasn't it?" he said fondly, brushing the red of her hair away from her tired face. Somehow, all the inhibitions and fears that made them hide such affection beneath the mask of humour had all drifted away to sleep now, and in some way they felt even closer than when they had sat together in the Nest.

"Been quite a life."

"Indeed." He looked at her hesitantly, and then leaned towards her slightly. After all, what could be dangerous in a goodnight kiss? It was hardly taking things too fast. Ginny seemed to feel the same way, because her hand started to curl round on to his shoulder, guiding him in, and a friendly sparkle kindled in her eyes.

Then feet stomped up the steps from the portrait hole.

"About time," Ron said, loudly and irritably- "But nowhere I can see it, please." The wizard and witch on the settee froze, looking speechlessly at one another. Ron dropped his bag on a nearby table and sat down, rubbing his hands near the fire.

"It's freezing in the Great Hall," he complained. "Hermione's wretched Spew nonsense- some of the House Elves have gone on strike or something." He turned to Harry. "I hope you've made up for whatever you said to upset my sister this afternoon- you wouldn't believe the look on her face when she came in here just before dinner- and why weren't you with her? I know you can flaming well put your foot in it, mate," Ron told him, and Harry nearly choked on his own tongue, "But how you could manage to mess things up with Ginny after how long she's been after you, I can't believe." He stopped, and raised a hand in the air. "Over here, Hermione," he called. "Looks like Harry and Ginny have just finished making up, so you can stop going on about it all the time." Hermione came and sat down on another chair near them. She was quickly joined by Neville, who wanted to ask her to double check something he'd written in his Transfiguration essay before handing it in tomorrow afternoon, and several other Gryffindors.

Harry and Ginny, drawing back from each other as they caught several amused looks, exchanged a silent look of regret.

"D'you think," Harry muttered, a moment or two later, "I could kill him now?"

"I reserve the right to kill my own brothers, Harry," Ginny scolded him quietly. "And I think he'll get to deserve it far more as time goes on, if I remember what Fred and George were like when Percy started going out with Penelope Clearwater."

"Fred and George." Harry's eyes widened. "They are going to have far too much fun at my expense this Christmas, aren't they?"

"Almost certainly," Ginny told him. "But not, probably, as much as me."

* * *

Harry made his way up to bed knowing he'd regret it in the morning- it was barely ten o'clock in the evening, and not having woken before mid morning today, he thoroughly expected an uncomfortable and restless night, not to mention the increasing likelihood of a headache with which to start the new week tomorrow- but he also needed time alone to think. The day had, short as it had been, lasted several years, after all. He was also, he admitted to himself with a little more honesty, getting an ache in his cheeks from holding down the broad grin that kept wanting to spread across them whenever he looked Ginny's way. As he undressed and set his glasses on his bedside table, he gave the clock a sly look.

"It _was_ a nice dream," he told it, "But sometimes dreaming when you're wide awake's even better, clock."

The Boy-Who-Lived got into bed, and, in his usual habit, took his Pensieve from under his bedside table and began to calm his thoughts. That night, as Harry slept long and deep, he did dream, but all his dreams were of sunlight and light breeze in soft hair the colours of copper and fire.

* * *

The sea clashed against the rocks below the headland, and he picked his way among the black shadows of rocks to the cliff's edge. The moon was hidden behind dark storm clouds, and so far from civilisation, no man-made light should shine- except there, high above, the pointing finger of pale flame which swept across the sea, gleaming in the night, and behind it, where it lit up the air to a dull blue-purple around it, a slender finger of darkness reared up out of the rock, supporting the light on its peak.

He parted his lips, and ran his forked tongue over them in anticipation. So many weeks since the news had come to him, and now, now he was grown strong. Soon his master stroke would fall, soon the destruction of his enemy would begin… but first, he had to know. He had to be certain. Something like fear gripped his twisted heart, and then, as was his habit, he smothered it with rage. He would triumph- it had been pre-ordained, and though the manner of that confirmation was strange and wonderful to him, he had conquered death, and would conquer the fates with equal facility.

Another figure, more slender than he, and moving with an awkward grace that had once been beautiful, before the winds of Azkaban had sullied it forever, a shadow darker than the dark split off from the rocks, and pushed back her hood.

"He is within, My Lord," Bellatrix rasped. "All is prepared."

"Is it still there with him?" The terrible urgency of the question was not lost on Bellatrix, and she nodded.

"He has not had the opportunity to move it. The Crucible will be yours, my Lord."

Lord Voldemort bared his even, pointed teeth in a silent rictus of triumph, and moved across the cliff top, dark cloaked body gliding across the dark grass. Once again, he drew up his hood, and stood on the cliff opposite the island lighthouse, luxuriating in the destructive power of the storm. Behind him, he felt Bellatrix stand to his right, Lucius to his left.

"Witness…" he hissed, "The fall of an old fool. An old, blind fool." Then his fingers slipped into his robe, and thirteen-and-a-half inches of yew were tilted towards the water. "Congelus Leviosa Vios Tempora," he murmured, and the waters rose up, high to the height of the cliff top, freezing as they rose, until a great crystal ramp led across the wild ocean. As Bellatrix and Lucius joined their charms to his, supporting the wonder their Lord had created, they walked, calm and unhurried, across the bridge. As they reached the island, a figure was briefly silhouetted against the lamp high above. Voldemort allowed himself a thin smile. He had had his Worm destroy the Floo connection to the island a scant few hours before. Powerful this wizard had once been, powerful and great… but now no help would come to him.

The gliding, black robed trio approached the door to the lighthouse. Lucius blasted it open with a Reductor Curse. One Auror behind the door was torn apart by flying wood. The other tried to fight, but fell, eyes staring, her breath even and shallow, her body frozen, before Bellatrix's Imperius Curse. The scarred Lestrange of Azkaban paused, looking down at the prisoner, and smiling cruelly. Voldemort brought Bella's chin round, gazed into her eyes, delighting in the lack of humanity he saw therein, his masterwork of inhumanity. "Save her for our… amusement," he whispered. There was only one other in the lighthouse, high up. The one he sought. He and Malfoy began mounting the steps, as Bellatrix prepared the prisoner for Voldemort's return.

In the dark they climbed, and he felt the denizens of darkness shiver and tremble at his touch. Spiders fled from him, meagre instincts telling them only of a dark predator more terrible than they. Yes…. Yes, that was his destiny. The ultimate predator, the absorber of life itself. So absorbed was he in the beauty of the thought that he almost missed the tiny movement in the dark above him.

"Obliteratus Malus!" The spell came, half screamed, from a wheezing throat, and Voldemort's shield shattered the charm to fragments. He came on. The figure staggered back a step, and the Dark Lord sent out a Bone-splintering curse which tore through his enemy's defences. With a cry of agony, and an awful cracking and splintering, the figure above him fell into his arms, quailing as the Dark Lord broke his wand from his ruined, arthritic hands, and threw the remains to Lucius below, before lifting him up, holding the beaten man's face inches from his own as he conjured light in his wand.

The face before him was ancient, truly ancient, and not spared from the ravages of time by the curious agelessness that blessed wizards like Albus Dumbledore. One eye was a pale, milky, glassy thing, all sight gone decades since. The other, a watery blue, rolled as it tried to comprehend the reptilian horror of Voldemort's features. The Dark Lord gaped a snake-like grin at him, and waited, as still they climbed, until at last they came to the small room in which the ancient man had waited, quaking in terror, until his guards had been slain and taken. Then Voldemort hurled him back into a chair, smiling contentedly as the shattered bones of the man's legs cracked agonisingly against the chair. He prowled towards him, lowering his head towards the wizened, skin-covered skull, and speaking close to the ear.

"Why, if it isn't Headmaster Dippet? Retired, I should say. It is… a pleasure to see you again, sir… After so long. How _are_ you, Professor?"

Lord Voldemort threw back his head and exulted in his own laughter.

* * *

Thanks for the reviews from **AriKitten**, **BferBear**, and **apple reaper **on that last chapter. Glad you're enjoying things so far...

Hm, interesting that you should say that about Ginny keeping Harry compos mentis, **AriKitten.**


	17. The Moments That Remain

**Chapter Seventeen: **The Moments that Remain

"You _can't_ be serious," Harry stared across the breakfast table.

Ginny ate the best part of a round of toast, and then practically drained a tall glass of pumpkin juice.

"Hermione," Harry shifted his gaze a pace to the left, and appealed to common sense. "Tell her it's impossible."

"Sorry, what's impossible?" Hermione looked up from her book. She seemed to have taken more and more to reading at mealtimes lately, Harry noticed. It made him worry a little, since, to be perfectly honest, he hadn't noticed the Sixth-year workload increase that much yet. That suggested he was missing something very fundamental. On the other hand, he reflected, it was also possible, to judge from his other best friend's slightly irritable expression, that Hermione was reading her books at table largely so as not to talk to Ron. Harry had long since lost track of what was going on _there_, and lately had had his own romantic problems to deal with.

Not that there was any problem in the fact of his burgeoning relationship with Ginny Weasley- other than their seeming inability to find much time for themselves. No, the problem, if there was one, lay in the fact that he had just reached the conclusion that the girl was utterly and totally mad, bad, and dangerous to know, and that he was slightly concerned by what it meant for his sanity that he found that rather exhilarating.

"Oh, never mind, Hermione," he said, with a wicked grin. "I just hope you like red, that's all." Then he looked back at Ginny. "Where on Earth would you brew that much Polyjuice Potion anyway?"

"Bah, don't impede my master plan with mere practicalities, Potter." She screwed up her nose at him.

He gave up on sanity. After all, he suspected that its guarantee had expired.

"Right then," he mused. "We'll brew it in the lake, and we'll go and mug Snape for the three tonnes of Boomslang horn after the match today."

"It's a date." She grinned.

"No, dearest, a date is when you and I try to go off somewhere on our own for a bit and Ron interrupts. This is an evil plot to conquer the world. Trust me, you don't hang around Little Tommy's apology for a brain as long as I have over the years without getting to know the difference." He looked up suddenly. "I do wonder how we're going to recognise the _real _Harry and Ginny afterwards though. I mean, it could be rather confusing."

"I'm sure we'll think of something."

"I'm sure we will."

A certain amount of time passed. Then, with a hoot that managed to convey contempt for all things red-headed, affection for Harry, and also utter exasperation with the same, something large and snowy-white shuffled round the table, stood in Harry's toast, blocking his view of Ginny, and looked pointedly at him. Not terribly difficult for a creature with a beak, but Hedwig managed to take it to new levels. Harry blinked, and jerked his head back slightly.

"Sorry, Hedwig," he apologised, soothing the owl's feathers. Nearby, Ron was attempting to remove a letter from Pigwidgeon, while the tiny owl in question was, with equal determination, attempting to be a shuttlecock in an unwitting game of badminton using Neville and Luna's heads as stationary and not entirely co-operative racquets. Hedwig turned her head to survey this latest manifestation of avian immaturity with infinite majesty and calm and, fluffing up the ruff of feathers around her neck ever so slightly so that Harry could soothe it, she stuck out one leg in a peremptory fashion- kicking a small piece of toast into his lap as she did so, so that he could see the message tied to it the elegant- if lethal looking- limb.

Harry raised his eyebrows at Ginny over the top of the bird's beautiful snowy head, and stroked Hedwig gently with one hand while unfolding the letter with the other. The envelope was quite springy and thick, feeling as though a piece of card or something had been tucked into it along with a letter. He started a little in surprise at the writing on the envelope. It was familiar- he couldn't quite place it, but still a little familiar. It was also written not with quill-and-ink, but in blue biro.

Mr H.J. Potter

Hogwarts High School

Great Britain

That was all it said. He opened it hurriedly. A photograph fell out- black and white and more than a little faded. Someone appeared at one time or another to have torn it in half, and it had been- fairly inexpertly, repaired with sellotape, now yellowing with extreme age. He looked it over. Two small girls, one perhaps seven or eight, with hair that looked as though it would have been red in colour, albeit a slightly darker shade than Ginny's, and eyes that seemed hauntingly familiar to him, and the other older, dark haired with a slightly pinched, nervous looking face and bulging eyes, holding the younger girl's hand protectively. They were standing in a park somewhere, presumably on a family day out or something similar. He turned the photograph over. Written (badly) in very faded pencil he could make out the legend:

Pet & Lily,

Aberystwyth family holiday

Above a date which he couldn't make out. He set the photograph down on the table, and looked at Hedwig, not trusting himself to meet the eyes of any of the others. Slowly, mechanically, he felt inside the envelope and pulled out a small piece of note paper, which he opened and read:

I'm sorry.

I thought you might like to see this. I know you have photographs from your father's side of the family, and of the two of them after they met, but I don't know if you've ever seen your mother as a child. Our father- your grandfather took this picture. Please keep it if you like.

Harry swallowed. There was no signature or greeting. He read it again. The Great Hall seemed too loud now, suddenly. Hedwig had shuffled over the table to steal Ginny's breakfast, and she was trying to appease the bird for taking Harry's attention… and Ron was shouting at Pigwidgeon, who had seized his letter back from him after he'd taken it from the owl's leg, and was now trying to eat the message he'd carried… and Harry knew he had to get out. Now.

He swung his legs abruptly over the bench and stood up, taking photograph, letter, and envelope in one hand and his outer robes in the other, and walking towards the door as quickly as he could manage.

Some time later, Ginny found him standing outside the Entrance Hall, leaning with his back against a stone pillar and looking out over the grounds. If she noticed the redness around his eyes, she did not comment on it.

"I've sent Hedwig up to the Owlery," she told him, slipping one arm round his waist. "At least your going off and leaving her made her stop glaring at me as 'the other woman'," she told him, and Harry gave a faint smile. Ginny leant on the pillar beside him for a long moment.

"Bad news?" she asked hesitantly after a bit. Harry shook his head, and handed her the letter and photograph. She turned them over in her hands- sliding the one regretfully out from around his waist to take the photograph, and looked questioningly back at him.

"Your Aunt Petunia?" she asked, frowning slightly.

"Got to be," Harry told her, and a little of the old sparkle appeared back in his eyes. "Apart from anything else, I don't think Dudley can do joined up writing yet."

"Well…" she sucked in her breath. "At least she's remembering that she's a member of the human race." She put the letter and photograph back into his hands and gave him a serious look. "I think we both know how much easier it is to try and forget that sometimes."

Harry gave her a grateful look, and she stretched up slightly to give him a light kiss on the forehead.

"Come on," he told her, a playful glint growing in his eyes. "Let's play some Quidditch."

* * *

Ron Weasley stood on the edge of the Quidditch pitch and tried to rehearse for the ordeal ahead. It was easy, he told himself. He just had to put one foot in front of the other until he got to the middle of the pitch, not notice the crowd of students looking down at him and the team he- he!- was leading out… and remember that business about breathing at the same time. It was that last bit that he was having trouble with. He swallowed. 

"Right… everyone remember how we're playing this?" the tall, currently pale faced boy said, making an effort to sound focused and determined. He glared especially at Kirke and Sloper, who looked slightly shamefaced.

"Defensive." Andrew Kirke finally offered. "Hufflepuff," he said, slightly parroting Ron's pre-match pep-talk, "Usually play their games like they're three or four separate teams- so I'm concentrating on keeping their Beaters off our players, and Jack's doing the same," he glanced at Sloper, "But he's also trying to knock their Chasers off balance."

"Check." Ron looked over at his three Chasers- in this case, Ginny, Seamus, and Clare. One of the hardest decisions he'd had to make had been whether to choose between Harry and Ginny as Seeker. In the end, he'd decided that the greater experience would win out, for the first game, at least- but, depending on how the season went, he'd had the two agree that, just occasionally, later on, they might trade positions. Ironic, he reflected with some amusement, since that was exactly the sort of thing they'd been teasing him about in Grimmauld Place over the summer. "You three… well, Ginny's the best flyer, but Seamus is probably fastest. Clare, I want you to start hugging their goal hoops as soon as Ginny or Seamus gets the Quaffle into their half of the pitch. Then, Seamus tries to run through with it, and makes to pass to Clare. Ginny- you go under and come up, and we'll surprise them. Harry- you look for the Snitch."

"Had been the plan, Captain." The two grinned at each other.

"Try and see if you can keep their Chasers off balance as well. It's a waste of resources having you sitting up there idling the match away ogling my sister," Ron added in a deadpan tone, and turned to face forward again. On the opposite side of the grass, he could see the Hufflepuff team gathering at the foot of the stands.

"Right," Captain Weasley squared his shoulders and attempted to smooth back hair that the wind was trying to make rival Harry's own for messiness. "Let's do this."

They made their way out on to the pitch, craning their necks round as they did so to see who they could recognise in the stands. A small party of Slytherins appeared to be attempting a chorus of "Weasley is Our King", but seemed to be suffering from some of their members having forgotten the tune over the holidays. Two rival groups were now more pre-occupied in debating this than attempting to demoralise the Gryffindor team. Ron distinctly observed Draco Malfoy practically shrieking something about semi-tones before having Blaise Zabini's seat cushion thrown at him.

"Idiots," Ron said succinctly, although his face was rather reddened.

A little further back, Harry and Ginny were also scrutinising the stands- but for a different reason. Up in the teaching staff and governors' box, Professor McGonagall held sway over a small and occasionally unruly group of teachers- but of the Headmaster, there was no sign.

"Still no Dumbledore," Harry shot Ginny a worried look. "He's been gone since breakfast on Monday."

"Did he say anything about what it was about?"

Harry shook his head, and looked a little bleak.

"He's owled me- just the same message he gave you, Ron, and Hermione, and me. Something's up, but he doesn't want to trouble us with it till he knows what it is… blast it, Gin," he fumed, "I swear he does it on purpose to irritate me."

"There's another reason," Ginny mulled it over. "I think he's afraid of something." She was about to say something else, and then stopped, peering at one lower corner of the commentary box. "Oh." She considered for a moment. "Bloody hell," she added, in a fair imitation of her brother.

"What?" Harry looked, and his eyes widened. "Oh, Ron's going to _love_ this for his first match in charge, isn't he."

"Couldn't they have just got Voldemort to do the job?" Beside them, Seamus winced. "Oh, for goodness sake," she sniped at him, before adding to Harry, "He might have been a bit more forgiving."

"Ahem." The magically enhanced voice of the commentator rippled across the stands. Ron looked up at him for the first time and made a low keening sound that Harry sincerely hoped the rest of the team- and more importantly, Ernie Macmillan's Hufflepuffs- hadn't heard.

"I'd like to thank Professor McGonagall for inviting me back here to commentate on this match," Oliver Wood began. "As you all know," he held up a crutch like a trophy, and a small cheer went up around the stadium, "I've had it for playing till next season, thanks to a bit of a misjudgement with a certain Bulgarian Seeker who wasn't looking where he was going…" a snigger went around the stands, and Harry noticed Ron looking suddenly a little happier, "… unless he actually thought I had the Snitch in my left boot. I don't know. Anyway, I'm sure you'll all be glad to know that my future at Puddlemere is still in safe hands, but since I understand graduation and the lure of the bars and fleshpots of Manchester has robbed you of young Lee Jordan's so… objective commentary, the Professor and I thought you might appreciate an eye on the game from a professional for a few weeks, until she's found a permanent successor, here to point out to you all the things that go right and prove just how talented some of our young players can be- and to tell you exactly what's happened when things go wrong."

Ron moaned slightly. This time, Ernie did hear, quite clearly, and called across to him, past a slightly disapproving Madam Hooch.

"Tell me about it, Weasley. Five knuts says we'll both want to run off and hide by the time my Seeker's caught the Snitch."

"In your dreams, Ernie," Ron recovered.

"Now," the voice from above re-asserted itself, "Below you on the pitch you can see the two teams…"

Harry sought out Justin Finch-Fletchley in the Hufflepuff team, and exchanged a terse nod with him. He didn't exactly dislike the Hufflepuff Seeker, but they did, he had to admit, have a tendency to end up on opposite sides of the fence. Mind you, compared with Ravenclaw's Cho Chang, or Malfoy's alleged Seeking skills for Slytherin, perhaps his acquaintance with Justin could be described as casual and amicable in comparison.

Oliver had finished speaking, and Madam Hooch given Ron and Ernie a meaningful look. The two captains, shrewd looks on each of their faces, shook hands, and Ron looked back at his team.

"Look alive," he said.

Harry threw his leg across his broom and kicked off from the ground, tossing a grin in Ginny's direction as he did so. Somehow, he had the feeling that the evening would be spent discussing how different Seekers, Virginia Weasley, for instance, might have played the game differently from him. She followed him up, before peeling off to the right to join the other Chasers, and stopping to give Clare, who was looking rather petrified at the idea of her first game, a few words of encouragement. Harry allowed himself a small, private flush of pride- both to be rising into the air as Seeker at a Quidditch game again, and at his dear friend below. Friends, he corrected himself, seeing Ron fly confidently and professionally back to his goal hoops. He waited, as Oliver Wood went through the final preliminaries, and turned lazily in the air.

"… finally, of course, their Seeker, tipped by many to be Captain this year, but no doubt happy to be back after a life-time Quidditch ban was overturned last month, Harry Potter!" Harry cringed slightly. Justin flew past him, and shot him a curious look. Harry didn't bother to return it. Madam Hooch had released the balls, and was running for cover- just in time, as Ginny had snatched the Quaffle from under Zacharias Smith's nose and zipped past Hooch's nose upside down.

"And it's an early start by Weasley, chaser for the Gryffindors, who has followed four of her brothers into the sport- her eldest brother Charlie being one of the best Seekers the team has ever seen, but…. Oh, that was tough," Wood narrated, "She loses the Quaffle to a snatch-tackle from Macmillan, who passes back to Smith, who'd do well to watch out for the Gryffindor Beaters, and…. What a foul-up from Gryffindor Beater Kirke!" he groaned, as a Bludger droned past Ginny's nose at high speed, and she jerked her head back sharply to avoid it. Harry peered urgently down, but she was unhurt. He could hear Ron shouting something uncomplimentary in his Beater's direction, before suddenly breaking off as Zacharias and Ernie flew round the other two Gryffindor Chasers and swept up to his goal hoops.

Ginny and Clare arced back around the pitch's outside, heading back to defence, but one of the Beaters was, at least, awake, and remembering what he was supposed to be doing; and Jack Sloper, who had managed to regain control of the Bludger his team mate had nearly hit Ginny with sent it flying back down the pitch at the tail end of Zacharias' broom. Harry heard Hannah Abbot shout a warning, and Zacharias turned, fast enough to avoid shattering his broom, but not fast enough to avoid being knocked wild by the Bludger, which then span round, nearly knocked Ron flying, passed through one of the goal hoops, and whipped back down the pitch.

With Ron unbalanced, Ernie dropped under his stricken companion as the Quaffle dropped, and seized the ball, hurling it left at the farthest goal hoop from Ron. Oliver Wood held his tongue. From his vantage point, Harry saw the red-haired blur of the keeper look desperately back over his shoulder, abandon any effort at turning his broom and instead pull straight up, looping over on to his back and punching the Quaffle away inches from the hoop. Hannah powered towards it on what looked like a Nimbus 2000, but Clare Jacques dropped vertically down twenty feet and took the ball out of her reach, racing away while Ron regained his equilibrium. Geoff Perkins and Mark Davy, the Hufflepuff Beaters, converged on her, batting a Bludger back and forth between them, and trying to get either side of the young Gryffindor, but she shot straight up in turn, dropping the Quaffle between the Beaters and into the hands of Seamus Finnegan, whose own Nimbus 2001 spun round, pulling him out of range and charging up the pitch back towards the Hufflepuff goal. Harry gave a gleeful grin as Oliver's commentary praised the Gryffindor teamwork, and was surprised to see a smile flicker across Justin's features.

"It's good to see a game where no one's actually out for blood for a change," the Hufflepuff Seeker remarked. "Don't get me wrong, you and Draco trying to kill each other makes for exciting Quidditch, but this gives the Captains a bit more of a chance to show off some tactics."

"Shame about our Beaters," Harry was forced to admit, as Kirke managed to drop his bat and narrowly avoid being hit by the Bludger he was trying to knock towards Ernie Macmillan.

"Sloper's not too bad," Finch-Fletchley observed. "And you've not seen Quinn's Keeping for our lot yet," he added sourly. As the score changed to 10-0 to Gryffindor, thanks to a shot from Finnegan, and Seamus and Ginny flew back down the pitch to a cheer from the allegedly objective commentator, he amended. "All right, now you have," in an even more sour tone.

Harry grinned tightly, and manoeuvred away. With the game shifting, and Gryffindor taking the offensive, he had a better vantage point to see the whole of the field from closer to the centre of the pitch. It was also a better vantage point to see Ginny, as she scored a second goal for Gryffindor- this time following Ron's game plan to the letter, and did a spectacular victory roll over the heads of the crowd… but that was, of course, coincidental.

"Show-off!" he called down to her.

"If you've got it, flaunt it!" she retorted.

"I'll remember that!" he shouted back, having a peculiar feeling that the victory roll had largely been aimed at him, and dropped past her like a stone, flattening out of his dive to skim the surface of the pitch. It was a perfect bluff- making Justin think he'd just flown across to have a word with his team-mate, to cover his approach to the Snitch. So perfect, in fact, that Harry wished he'd actually thought of it, instead of just happening to glimpse the little golden thing flash past Zacharias Smith's ear as he spoke. Not that he really wanted to catch the Snitch this early in the game, but Justin, while not brilliant by any means, was a good enough Seeker that Harry couldn't really afford to let him take the initiative.

Sure enough, he could feel the other Seeker on his tail soon enough, and that was enough to drive him after the Snitch all the faster- although he could already see that taking it now was going to be almost an impossibility. Sure enough, the ball spun around, darting madly between Chasers of both teams. Harry flew over, Justin- around five seconds behind him, under, but the Snitch had vanished. Harry grinned savagely. He would swear the little ball was learning new tricks. Using players as shields seemed to be one of its current favourites. He was still ruminating on this when Oliver gave out a tragic sigh, and informed the crowd that Hufflepuff had scored. Harry pulled up. Ron was _not_ looking pleased with himself, while Ernie Macmillan and his other two Chasers flew back up the pitch past Harry, broad grins on their faces.

A short, ragged burst of 'Weasley is our King'- in two rival keys, broke out from the Slytherin end of the stands. As Harry flew upward again, he heard Ginny, in the middle of a tactical discussion with Seamus, remark,

"Excuse _me_," and fly quickly past the stands, pausing to make some quiet comment to the spectators in question. The song stopped.

Three times more the Snitch was sighted- each time without success, once by Justin, and twice by Harry. Ron failed to save one more goal- although in fairness to both him and Ernie's tactics, the Hufflepuff Chasers executed such a superbly co-ordinated attack on that occasion that Oliver Wood was forced to admit live over the commentary that he doubted he'd have been able to stop it himself, which made Ron look a great deal happier. In contrast, however, he managed to block several further attempts on the score, and Clare- much to her own amazement- scored a goal against Hufflepuff, re-establishing the Gryffindor lead.

Harry soared high, and opened his mind. The teams were evenly matched, and it was clear that the game was honing both sides. Jack Sloper seemed to have risen to the challenge of Perkins and Davy's teamwork reasonably well- especially after Oliver Wood's commentary had praised him for a particularly ruthless attack on poor Hannah Abbot, and even Andrew had succeeded in stopping one Hufflepuff strike cold in the course of the game. Erica Quinn, Hufflepuff's Keeper, was still having problems, but Harry reflected with a slight internal chuckle that he too would find Ginny charging at him, Quaffle in hand, like a flaming thunderbolt, a fairly intimidating prospect.

A balanced game, of course, meant that it was time for the Seeker to do something more than just provide a ceremonious finale to the match. He glanced over at Justin, slowly circling a little lower than himself, and then back to the pitch below. A balanced game meant that it was the Seeker's job to win the day. Harry licked his lips and leant low over his broom. A thought crossed his mind.

"Tom," he muttered to himself, "You interrupt me now, and I'll hex you into so many pieces you might as well not have bothered being resurrected." Then he resumed his passive search, listening, feeling as much as looking for the Golden Snitch.

Something felt out of place. He glanced up. Just Oliver, audibly enthused with the quality of play on either side… and in front of him, up just above his head, with McGonagall behind him staring straight at it in some consternation.

Oh yes.

Harry flicked a glance to Justin. He had seen Ron trying to flick something away from round his head- a fly, possibly. Harry had heard of players deliberately pretending to have encountered the Snitch in order to lure the opponent's Seeker into a time-wasting dive- but it was a foolish tactic, since all too often the Seeker wasn't fooled at all, and had actually seen the _real_ Snitch, and in any case, it wasn't Ron's style… and, Harry realised, he had rather more important things to consider than the insect life of the goal hoops. Namely the Snitch.

As he started to ease himself forward, wanting to get just that bit closer before alerting Justin with the final plunge, he saw McGonagall's eyes flick between him and the Golden Snitch a few feet away from her, and, a truly priceless expression on her face, sidle slightly to one side. Harry took the opportunity to grin insanely at his Transfiguration teacher, and- as he caught the faintest hint of Justin's head turning, out of the corner of his eye, flung himself forward at top speed.

"And as the game continues, we see… and high up," Oliver changed tack mid sentence, "Potter has seen the Golden Snitch, and is making a classic attack run, Finch-Fletchley in hot pursuit… Potter seems to be heading directly this way, and it's clear the Snitch is somewhere in this… oh." Oliver's magically amplified voice taught a few of the students a new word as he hurled himself back away from the Snitch, landing on his injured leg and on Minerva McGonagall, who went in the space of half a second from berating Wood on his language to another, only slightly more printable obscenity as the professional keeper's somewhat burly form knocked her off her feet.

Harry swept over the stand, beaming down at his panicked teachers, managed to knock Snape off his feet with the tail of his broom, and raced out again, following the Snitch as it plunged away from him.

Oh please, go on… straight through the Slytherins, please…

Alas, the ball had indulged enough destructive urges for one day, and skimmed low over the pitch, forcing Harry to duck low to avoid being brained by people's feet as they tried to haul their broomsticks into the wind and out of his way. He narrowed his eyes. The Golden Snitch was running out of places to 'run'. Sure enough, moments before it would have struck the foot of one of the stands, the little ball tried to double back, and spinning on his own broom as he did it, already turning to head back away from the edge to the centre, but leaving it close enough to elicit several panicked cries from the crowd, he caught it firmly in his right hand and held the struggling little thing high.

A round of applause went round the stadium as Harry dismounted at the centre of the pitch- and redoubled as the rest of both teams joined him. Harry took the opportunity to politely inform the mischievous little bauble that it was the custom for players to perform the Wronski feint on each other- the Snitch was not supposed to deliberately court havoc. The ball gave a last squirm against his hands that felt almost like a non-committal shrug, and then Ginny somehow managed to combine dismounting from her broom and hugging him tightly into one movement that had the unfortunate effect of sending them both staggering and nearly ending up sprawled on top of one another in front of the entire school- if Ron hadn't quickly flung out his hands to support them both.

Oliver Wood, a little shakily, cheered the victory for Gryffindor from above, and added his congratulations on one of the best afternoons of Quidditch he'd seen at any level in a while, while the friends and colleagues of both teams charged on to the pitch. While Hermione loudly attempted to congratulate Ron on his game plan, protest her ignorance of what was actually going on, and scold Harry for taking absurd risks at the same time, Colin's camera flash went off in Harry and Ginny's faces.

"Oh… er, sorry," he apologised, seeing Ginny look meaningfully at him. "I didn't mean to… I mean, I promise I'll make sure no one…"

"Colin!" Ginny stopped him. "Take another one, would you? Harry and I would like a copy, if you don't mind."

Colin did a double take. It was, Harry supposed, one of the few times anyone at school had ever actually _asked_ him to take a photograph. Then he grinned.

"All right, Harry, Ginny… smile!"

The instruction was unnecessary.

* * *

"My everything aches." Harry put his feet up on one of the benches in the Nest, and folded his arms behind his head. "How about you?" It was the first thing either he or Ginny had said for a while. After the evening meal, with the rest of Gryffindor planning to make a night of it in the Tower- there were rumours flying round about Oliver Wood and a case of Fire Whiskey, rumours which Ron and Hermione, as Prefects, were both doing their level best to deal with- Hermione by trying to find the case and prevent anyone drinking from it, and Ron by trying to distract Hermione long enough for the rest of the team to hide it somewhere different- he and Ginny had silently slipped away in the darkening evening to Helena's Nest, Harry only pausing on the way to collect one of his older, and more treasured possessions from the Tower. 

Ginny ran her hands down the last- until now- filled page of the photo album, and looked up at him with eyes that glistened in the candlelight. Harry felt his own throat become obstructed, as he read her expression. She couldn't comprehend it, he realised. To only know your family in pictures. It horrified her. He leant forward, face burning. He couldn't stand the idea of her- especially her, pitying him in that way. He touched the spine of the book.

"You're my family now, Gin. You, Ron, Hermione, all of you," he told her, swinging his feet down again and moving closer to her. "But especially you." He looked down at the album's new last page- at least, he told himself with a surge of light in his heart, last to date. The first picture, unlike so many of them, was still, a static Muggle photograph of two girls standing in a park, the jagged tear which had once split it now almost restored and made whole by a Smoothing Spell rather kinder to the print than ancient sellotape. Beneath, in the same flowing script as the rest of the album, was written "Petunia and Lily Evans." Below that, another wizarding shot, Harry and Ginny standing together, her hair blowing wild through the air, their arms wrapped around each other, and the Golden Snitch held in front of them, each of their eyes gleaming with a light that owed little to its reflection.

Ginny looked searchingly at him now, and brushed her fingertips lightly across his brow.

"Just don't start thinking about me as a sister, Potter," she told him playfully. "That would make everything a lot less enjoyable." She gave him an intent look, and briefly her face flushed, before a determined glint entered her eyes. "Especially this," she added, and kissed him.

* * *

Thanks to **AriKitten**, **merlinthemighty,** and **DarthKottoram **for their reviews. I'm glad people like Milner- or, at least, find him interesting. Hm, incidentally, this gave me a moment or two of amusement, from **AriKitten**:

_"Milner's a riddle, that's for sure." _

There I was, having just re-read a previous chapter and noticed that I'd (entirely accidentally) given him a name which might send anyone keen on anagrams barking up a new and unusual tree... and now you (accidentally?) implythe poor chap'srelated to Little Tommy? Aloysius just can't win, can he?


	18. The Sound of Sorcery

**Chapter Eighteen:** The Sound Of Sorcery

"That," Professor Milner looked keenly around at his fifth year class, and rocked back on his heels, "nearly concludes today's lesson, don't you know?" There was the beginnings of the symphony of chaos that inevitably accompanied any group of students' attempts to break the speeds of sound, light, and poetic justice in trying to pack away their books and get out of the classroom as quickly as possible, and he flung his wand arm towards the ceiling, and cast a Thunderflash curse. Everyone jumped, and silence reigned again- only to be disturbed a few moments later by a couple of nervous giggles as a few flakes of plaster and paint settled on the Professor's dark hair.

"I did say 'nearly' concludes," Milner told them, folding his arms and crossing his eyes as he watched a small piece of white plaster slide down his nose and drop on to the toe of his shoe. He blinked twice. "Virginia Weasley, name for me if you would the wizard who invented the Unforgivable Curses in the form we use- or rather," he added, rubbing his prodigious eyebrows, "The way we don't use, unless we want those cuddly fluffy Dementors we all love so much to stroll up from Azkaban and pop round for tea and ginger biscuits... and I've now lost myself in my own sentence, but let us just say the current form of the Unforgivable Curses?"

Ginny paled slightly. She'd listened to the majority of the potted biography Milner had given of the wizard in question earlier on- largely because the idea of someone creating new magic, naming it and shaping it for the years to come fascinated her, even if in this person's case he had... undeniably, been a little unpleasant, not to say insane towards the end. She could remember Milner telling them how the wizard had cursed some Muggle philosopher or scientist or something, so whenever he went near an apple tree the apples started falling on him, or something like that. She could remember that he'd created at least seventy new spells in his lifetime, ten of which were impossible to cast, three of which were Unforgivable, and the rest of which varied between the spell to straighten out bent teeth in a comb, to a spell which turned blood into salt. Unfortunately, the one thing that seemed to escape her was the name... name...

"Albus Ranbrot?" she hazarded.

"Albert," the Professor corrected, with a flash of a smile. "Thank you. I apologise for the rather theoretical nature of this lesson, everyone... but funnily enough the board of Governors frowns on practical demonstrations of the Killing Curse in class. Dismissed, anyway." He turned away to his desk, and hexed his belongings into his bag, muttering "And then start moaning about school overcrowding. Honestly, they never think these things through, do they..."

Deciding not, on this occasion, to rise to the bait, Ginny swung her bag up to her shoulder, and, waiting for Luna to follow her, they made their way out of the classroom, almost colliding with Harry and Hermione on their way in.

"Sorry... oh, hello," she smirked at Harry, before taking in the serious look in the other two's faces. Harry took her by the arm, and spoke quietly to her.

"Two o'clock this afternoon," he said. "The Room of Requirements."

"I've got Transfiguration with McGonagall..."

"She'll have cancelled it by then," he told her. Hermione had just finished explaining the same to Luna, and she looked up to see Milner regarding the four of them with undisguised amusement.

"We just... wanted to check that Advanced Theory was still on top of the Astronomy Tower today, sir," Hermione said quickly.

"Ah, yes, Miss Granger," the Professor smiled. "Quick thinking, well done. Five points to somebody or other. And yes, in answer to your spoken question... and probably, borderline, if you have to, in answer to your unspoken question. See you in class... bye!" he swung his legs out of the window and dropped from view.

Luna regarded their shocked faces placidly, as Harry dashed over to the window.

"Gravity is a state of mind," she told Ginny seriously, and walked serenely off into the corridor. Harry came back to join Ginny and Hermione, putting an arm around the former's waist and giving her a gentle hug, still delighted by the simple pleasure of being able to do just that.

"He had a broomstick outside the window," he told the two girls, and pulled a face. Ginny grinned at him.

"All right then, what's this going to be all about?"

"We don't know much ourselves yet, Ginny," Hermione told her. "About all I can tell you for sure is that it's going to be front page news in tomorrow's Daily Prophet."

* * *

"What is magic, Mr Boot?" The weather had turned sharply colder, and no one in the Advanced Theory class was any longer particularly entranced by Milner's decision to hold the class on top of the Astronomy Tower- however stunning the view out across Hogwarts' grounds might be. Terry Boot, the first to reach the top of the steps, blinked, put on his back foot, and looked round. Professor Milner stood with his back to them, several metres away, apparently teetering on the very brink of the tower ramparts.

"Erm… well, it's magic, sir. Power, I suppose," Terry attempted.

"Well done, Mr Boot. Five points to you, I think." Milner took a step back, and, with a swish of his wand, removed the Disillusionment Charm on a set of desks and chairs, and beckoned for the students taking Advanced Magical Theory- Harry, Hermione, Terry Boot, Blaise Zabini, Susan Bones, Parvati Patil, and Ernie Macmillan, to sit. Malfoy was, this week, noticeable by his absence. Harry glanced at his empty chair, and flicked his gaze upward, just in time to meet Milner's. The Professor, who had been a little subdued in the first couple of Defence classes of the week, but now seemed largely himself again, raised his eyebrows very, very slightly.

"Now then…" he folded his arms behind the billowing black academic gown he had chosen for the day, and stretched his head forward towards them. "Where shall we begin… wands away, I think…" he smiled lopsidedly at the vague sounds of protest. "Yes… I think I mean it this time, Miss Zabini. Trust me when I say that this is not an area for idle experimentation." He paused, exchanging another brief look with Harry, and then breaking into another, broader smile, and marching to the front of the improvised classroom. "Professor Dumbledore would miss his castle."

"Magic… is not just power. Magic is not just energy, and it is not just thought. A musical instrument is not a symphony, neither is the conductor, nor the composer, nor the score. Magic is the very stuff of life itself, the world of the mind reaching down into the world of matter and correcting it when it goes wrong." He rocked back on his heels. "Can anyone tell me… in words simple enough for a teacher with a hangover to understand, what, exactly, the point of spells is?" He looked around, and smiled. "Good morning to you too, Miss Granger. Very well, go ahead."

Hermione lowered her hand.

"Spells are what we use to articulate magic," she told the class, and frowned, seeing Milner, his eyes alight with what seemed to Harry to be genuine interest, gesture to her to go on. "As you said, Professor, about a symphony- an instrument isn't music in itself. There's also a difference between a noise and a sound… and elementally, magic is about communicating with the universe, and telling it what we want to be done. Our power- the power we're born with, is that gift of communication… and also our ability to… well, to enforce our will, but that implies it's a process of dominating the universe, which is how Elias Godwit's book describes it, but I'd disagree with that. Magic is- or should be, more about symbiosis with reality."

"Arrr, that be quite right, so far, it be," Milner remarked. "And good point on the Godwit text. The man doesn't know the first thing about trans-Thaumaturgical dynamics. And he stole my bicycle at Cambridge once. Go on."

"Oh… erm…" Hermione blushed a little. Harry grinned encouragingly at her. He had managed to focus his mind on the lesson, which was a compliment to either Milner's teaching, Hermione's explanation, or the subject itself, given that his train of thought these days seemed to be caught in an eternal battle between Ginny Weasley and Tom Riddle. That wasn't to say that a large clock wasn't still floating in his brain somewhere ticking down the remaining twenty-four hours to go until their 'date', but other than that, the Theory of Magic had succeeded in capturing his attention.

"Well," Hermione continued, "It's part of Jung's theory about the Collective Unconscious, really, I suppose…" Most of the other students rolled their eyes. "He was a Muggle psychologist," she explained. "The idea is that, somehow, all minds, all ideas, are linked. He was a little hazy about how it might actually happen, but…"

"But the proven presence of an ambient magical field generated and fed by living beings- particularly those capable of articulating abstract thought makes that a far less difficult question, Miss Granger," Milner grinned at her, and took up the thread.

"Twenty points to Hermione Granger… excellent work, and an excellent parallel with Muggle thinking. To continue our sound metaphor, the sound of sorcery is the harmony of every spell currently being cast across this planet- and any other that happens to have wizards on it, I suppose, although the inverse square law applies to magic as well as gravity, so that is quite possibly majestically irrelevant and you're all going to go to sleep in a minute unless I attack Mr Potter or vice-versa, aren't you? Stupefy, and therefore you'll notice that, although accidental magic works, good shield charm by the way, Potter, it rarely responds to your conscious mind… in fact, if it did, that would rather be a contradiction in terms. Accidental magic is just noise. Powerful and destructive- and, in fact, it does occasionally serve to temporarily disrupt the power of other wizards in the vicinity, which may occasionally be worth remembering. Ow!" Milner paused, rubbing his hand.

"Good stinging jinx too, Mr Potter," he added. Blaise Zabini gave a short, hacking laugh, and covered it with a cough.

Milner continued.

"So, why are spells needed? Conditioning." He stalked around the class, arms folded behind his back, and paused, drawing his wand again and bringing forth a small shower of bright blue sparks. "We're all individuals, sure we are,but only to other people. To this planet," he lilted softly, "To this universe… we're all very similar, aren't we?We think… in recognisable ways. Not identical, not the same, no… but similar. The spells are a shortcut. Once a new melody has been worked into the harmony, a new piece of magic, you can't simply do it by chanting the spell. That's what you lot have been here for the last six years to learn, in amongst the more important business of stuffing your faces, hexing your teachers, and flying around on small pieces of wood throwing little balls around. Swish, flick, wave, swizzle, speak the spell. You learn the 'feel' of magic- it's instinctive, few people even realise what they're doing, fewer still are able to do it consciously, and even fewer are genuine spell weavers, able to weave something totally new into the tapestry, if you'll forgive the leapfrogging of metaphor. Once you've learned a spell, you'll notice it becomes easier each time. Not the power requirement- no one on this tower is going to be able to perform the obliterata solaris curse… I hope," he added, giving the sun a nervous look. "For that matter," Milner added, dropping into an archly anecdotal tone that reminded Harry of Uncle Vernon trying to impress someone over dinner, "Since the psychotic little chappy that invented it had his skull sawn open and his brain set on fire by Isaac Newton- another Muggle, which should teach you not to underestimate them when the chips are down... and not to throw apples at them, for that matter, the day after he dreamed it up and- we hope- before he ever wrote it down, no one on this tower is ever going to learn the bloody thing."

"Where was I? Apart from scaring myself, Miss Zabini. Ah yes… not the power requirement, that will remain the same, although the more you practice at powerful spells, the easier you'll find it to draw on power when you need it… but that's a separate issue. It's the matter of guiding your mind into the correct configuration, so that when your spell, when your will enters the harmony it does so along a path which follows the rhythm and melody of the world, rather than trying to blunder through it at right angles. That is why we use spells. We are all part of one world." He paused, and gave Harry a particularly penetrating look. "Even Voldemort. Trying to just hammer the universe into shape with loud noise is unlikely to achieve anything- if you actually had the raw power to, say, turn that chair into a table… while simultaneously fighting against the subconscious flow of every mind on the planet and without focusing your mind first… then you'd probably snap reality's little finger and badly sprain its wrist in the doing of it. No one has that power. Not you, not me, not You-know-Who, not Dumbledore. It's a physical impossibility, and, somewhat more reassuringly, a poetic impossibility as well." He turned away, apparently enjoying the feel of the chill wind on his face.

The students looked at each other. Most wore slightly resigned, or occasionally amused expressions. No one had quite heard the stout man talk for so long with so few jokes. Only Hermione and, to a much lesser extent, Harry, seemed to feel at ease with what had just been said. Hermione understood it, or so she appeared to think, and Harry- well, he would have made no claim to understand it, but it felt 'right'. It 'fitted' emotionally.

Milner turned slowly to face them.

"Why, Miss Zabini, is any of what I've just said in any way useful?" he asked.

Blaise looked trapped.

"Um... because we can use magic better if we try to make it fit this sound you're talking about?" she tried. Milner nodded.

"Five and three-eighths of a point to Slytherin. Correct." He ignored Hermione's small glare of protest at his latest mangling of the points system. "To be perfectly frank, spells are a perishing nuisance, psychologically speaking. They assume a unity which doesn't exist."

Harry put his head in his hands. He'd thought the man had just told him the unity _did_ exist. Apparently not.

"We're stuck with them, though. Magic is, as I said, a communicative art, and for all we might like to change it, our thoughts, our minds, are irretrievably bound up with language. To focus our minds strongly enough on any goal to actually bring magic to bear on it in a controlled manner, we have no choice but to invoke the language part of our brain." Milner sat down at a desk, and looked intently at them.

"It's an approximation, though. The spell allows a magically gifted human to work magic along the lines of the spell's intent... but any spell takes practice, because every one wizard or witch is different. If you can grow accustomed to the harmony, learn to hear the sound of sorcery in your mind's lughole, then," his eyes gleamed, a broad smile- of genuine enthusiasm, with no mockery in it, "Just imagine how much more you can achieve."

His eyes flicked backwards.

"Yes, Miss Patil?"

"Including new spells?" asked Parvati. "You said, if you could understand magic, you could... well, change it, create new spells."

"Possibly," Milner jumped abruptly to his feet, and turned away. He pulled his hands round in front of him. "Spellweaving is not easy, nor is it particularly safe, Miss Patil. It is very rare to have the degree of sensitivity that will allow you to weave new magic from scratch. Perhaps- with time, many above average wizards and witches can _alter_ existing spells... and that, in all honesty, will usually suffice if there is something you are that desperate to do that isn't currently possible." Professor Milner turned round to face them again.

"There is," he told them, while glancing at his watch, "No actual spell available for the cutting of lemon cheesecake. However, a small knife will usually do the job quite nicely."

* * *

Ginny missed Harry at lunch. Ron had stumped up and sat down, telling her that he and Hermione were in the middle of a meeting with McGonagall- then he'd grimaced and said that actually it had been more like a blazing row.

"What's Harry done now?" his girlfriend had asked. "Why's McGonagall cross with him?"

"It was Harry doing the shouting," Ron had told her, looking a bit unhappy. "Dumbledore's back, but he's just gone straight into his office and refused to see anyone. Harry started demanding to know what was going on- Hermione and I backed him up," he added hastily, seeing Ginny not look terribly pleased at the implication that Ron was critical of Harry's desire to be kept informed, "Saying that Dumbledore had promised him, and wanting to know why McGonagall wouldn't just tell him... Then he got really mad, and started bringing up last year, and the Department of Mysteries, and all that again." He winced. "Then McGonagall told him to sit down and shut up."

Ginny flinched.

"The castle is... still here, then?" she asked, investigating a chocolate pudding and deciding against it.

"Seems like it. Anyway, we're all meant to be going along there after lunch," Ron sighed. "I just hope Harry knows what he's doing."

"Don't worry, Ron," Ginny beamed at him. "I'm sure, if he doesn't, I'll be able to give him some advice." Ron put his knife and fork down.

"I've lost my appetite."

* * *

"Thank you, Miss Weasley, Mr Longbottom. If you would join the rest of us..." Professor McGonagall trailed off uncertainly. Harry was giving her an odd, almost challenging look. It was most unlike the boy to challenge her authority without cause, but now, in the Room of Requirements, she had the distinct impression that he felt that he, not her, was in charge. She drew herself up. 

"Mr Potter has asked that you be made privy to all the facts." She put a slight stress on the word 'asked', and gave Harry a chilly look. To his credit, the boy looked somewhat chastened. She could appreciate his desire to separate school and Order matters, but while she would never accuse Potter of revelling in his own importance, it was undeniable that his sense of urgency where the war was concerned was increasingly leading him to attempt to take an inappropriate lead. On the other hand, she could most definitely sympathise with his current annoyance- since she was by no means immune to it herself.

"I cannot, I am afraid, give you a complete and full account- that must wait until Professor Dumbledore is rested and able to speak more clearly..." Harry started to speak, and the Deputy Headmistress silenced him with a look. "I am quite well acquainted with your feelings on the matter, thank you, Mr Potter," she said dryly. "And all I can say is that I agree with them, but that you will- after this meeting- be as well informed about matters as any other member of the Order, with the exception of the Headmaster."

She paused, and sighed.

"Around a week and a half ago, Armando Dippet was murdered."

"Dippet?" Ron and Ginny looked at each other. Hermione pursed her lips, while Harry looked pensive, obviously recognising the name from somewhere, but plainly unsure. Eventually, Hermione offered:

"The Headteacher before Dumbledore?"

"Correct, Miss Granger." McGonagall shook her head sadly. "Professor Dippet retired many years ago, and had been living on a... tower, I think the Muggles call them 'lighthouses', on the West Coast. Sunday last, that tower was attacked by Death Eaters. We don't know who, although the Aurors investigating have intimated to me- and, I'm sure, to Professor Dumbledore as well, that You-Know-Who may have been personally responsible. Two Aurors guarding the tower were also killed." She hesitated, looking at the younger girls- Ginny and Luna, in a pained sort of way. "The man, Alan Dexeter, was killed in the struggle. We believe the woman, a very talented witch, Christina Felix, was taken away and killed later." She closed her eyes briefly.

After a moment, Ron addressed her, a little hesitantly.

"Sorry, Professor... two Aurors guarding one retired Headteacher? Was Dippet up to something for the Order?"

She shook her head.

"Not for the Order, no... but we... I believe, Mr Weasley, that he may well have been custodian of something for Professor Dumbledore. He has spoken of something called 'Fate's Crucible'."

"Which is?" Harry asked, leaning forward intently. McGonagall shook her head.

"I don't know, Mr Potter. Not for certain. The Headmaster has indicated that he will explain to all of us in the next few days, which is why I feel myself authorised to elaborate on these details to you," she noted, a little primly. "All that I can say..." she paused, and added severely, "And all that the Restricted Section of the library will have to offer either, as I suspect I should say beforehand to prevent unnecessary disorder, is that one in possession of the Crucible is in a position to make a bargain with destiny... and that, at some point in time, it seems Professor Dumbledore has done just that."

"Well, what sort of bargain?" Harry demanded.

McGonagall turned to him, and Harry was shocked by the uncertainty, and indeed fear in her eyes.

"We don't know."

That look haunted him long after she had asked them all to return to their lessons, and made her own way back to her office. For as long as he could remember, Professor McGonagall's loyalty to the Headmaster had been one of the pillars that held the school together. She had fought to keep his beliefs alive in the school when he had been forced away in Harry's second year, and again in his fifth. She had been- under, Harry felt sure, Dumbledore's tutelage, one of the best teachers he'd ever known, and also, if he was honest, one of the most reliable teachers in the school. Yes, she was strict, and could be more than a little intimidating- but she was fair. She held to the rules, and when those failed her she held to what was right, and just, and that had never failed her. She expected the same from others as she gave to them, and Harry imagined that that was as true in her dealings with her mentor as it was with her students- and Dumbledore, being who he was, had never let her down. Now, though, he realised, the man had done something that McGonagall clearly disapproved of, didn't understand, and something that quite plainly scared her more than any Death Eater ever could.

"Tomorrow evening, she said," Ginny murmured, tucking her arm through his. "We'll find out all about it after Hogsmeade." Her eyes sparkled.

Harry let loose one of several pent-up breaths.

"I was half-afraid you might not still want to go," he said, "After this." He didn't add that he'd felt ashamed then, of trying to put worries about his personal life on the same level as the war, once again. Ginny saw it in his eyes, though, and narrowed her own.

"Why?" she asked. "I've been trying to get a date with the famous Harry Potter for two years longer than the famous Tommy Riddle's been resurrected and trying to kill you, so Voldemort can just wait his turn, thanks very much."

Harry laughed, and stroked her hair. Ahead of them, Ron coughed meaningfully, and tried to walk faster. Harry made to slow down, but felt Ginny, eyes glinting a little, force the pace.

"Seriously, Harry... anything could happen," he heard her whisper. "Any time. Remember what Dumbledore said to us at the start of term? 'Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we diet?'"

They had almost reached a junction in the corridors. Now, Harry had to face Potions, while Ginny was on her way out of the castle to Hagrid's Care of Magical Creatures OWL class, their last classes of the week. She stretched up and brushed her lips over his.

"See you tomorrow," she breathed huskily. Harry looked down at her with some amusement, and decided to be literal, for perverseness' sake.

"We... live in the same tower, Gin. I'll probably see you before tomorrow."

"Doesn't sound as romantic," she objected, scowling playfully at him. "Couldn't you cover your eyes or something?" She tickled him as she slid her arms out from round his waist.

"I'm not wandering around blindfolded just to be romantic."

"Bah, I can see someone's going to have to be taught to be a _lot_ more creative," Ginny told him brazenly, "Don't you think, Hermione?"

Harry turned purple. Hermione nodded sagely.

"You'll just have to remind him of what Professor Milner's always saying, Ginny," she told the other Gryffindor girl as they walked away. "Experimentation is always good until buildings start falling down."

"Oh, I don't think we'll get _that_ wild."

Harry turned to Ron. The other boy's face was white, and he seemed to be trying to count the motes of dust in his own eyes.

"Help," he managed. "She's your sister. Help me." Ron shook his head.

"Sorry, mate."

"I'm your friend, Ron," he appealed. The redhead held up his hands and backed away.

"Yeah, but _you_ don't even know how to turn people into carrots," Ron told him. "Sorry Harry, you're on your own."

* * *

Later that night, Harry folded his clothes neatly- for the third time, and took off his glasses. Everything was ready for tomorrow. He repeated that to himself, just to make quite certain that every part of his subconscious had heard this time, and set the spectacles down on his bedside table. He sat on the bed and looked hard at the clock. A charm Ginny had taught him one afternoon in the Nest had silenced it while he was getting to sleep, but, all being well, it would still keep time, and return to its normal volume in time for his alarm to go off tomorrow morning. That, at least, was the theory.

He wondered to himself, as he took the Pensieve from his drawer and started to regulate his breathing, why he still felt so nervous. After all, he and Ginny had been 'going out', in inverted commas, as Neville put it, for twelve days now, and had both been to Hogsmeade in previous years, but logically Harry doubted the little hamlet would have changed entirely and beyond recogition simply because Ginny would be walking beside him and, might, occasionally, without prior arrangement in triplicate, kiss him. That, the non-logical part of Harry Potter's mind sniffed, was nonsense. Hogsmeade would, of course, be utterly different.

Harry reached a decision. It was that he and Ginny would be doing something together. Not Harry and Ginny, as separate people, meeting, but that there would be a composite entity of Harry and Ginny, doing something as a unit. That was what was special, he decided. He rather liked the idea, and resolved to make sure that it was a day to remember happily for both of them.

He touched his wand to his forehead, and started to prepare for the good night's sleep he would need.

* * *

Thanks, **AriKitten**, I admit I'm by no means a fan of Quidditch, but Harry is, and a good day for him would be made better with it. There are a few more pieces of Milner's puzzle out now, as well. 

**Jack-A-Roe**, yes, the Curses are evil, but they're also seductive. Very seductive. It's a lot easier to say "Avada Kedavra" to someone you don't like, and convince yourself for the second or so that's necessary to cast that that you're doing the right thing, that you've got no choice, or simply that you're really, really, _irritated_ and they deserved it, than it is to keep yourself mad long enough to kill them in more conventional ways. That's what Harry was afraid of.

**James **& **missy mee, **glad you're enjoying things- I've tried to pay slight homage to JKR's style in structure terms, but gave up early on in holding totally true to it (I don't think the perspective _ever_ shifts away from Harry in the books, and I find contrasting P.O.V.s more interesting to work with- I'm determined to give Voldemort a chance to make you sympathise with him before I've finished...).


	19. Hammer

**Chapter Nineteen:** Hammer

His cheek was cold, and he was lying on his face. He turned his head, and brought the scar on his forehead into contact with the cold flagstones. Nerve endings screamed at him, and the pain nearly deafened his mind.

Harry twisted his neck back, pulling his forehead away, shaking his head violently, trying to drive out the agony with other sensations. It was too much... too great... he rolled, trying to pull himself on to his back, but something was restraining him, and the pain was flowing into him, drums beating inside his skull, fire flashing somewhere behind his eyes.

"Harry, wake up!" He shook his head. He had to... concentrate... on... the pain. Had to, had to force it down, stop it.

"Harry, it's over, wake up!" A boy's voice- Ron, he thought, calling to him. He lashed out again. He had to lie on his back, he had to turn, the pain was building every moment that he didn't distract it with movement.

A muffled curse, and he rolled over, striking the back of his head against the stone.

"What's happened to my bed..." Harry sat up sharply, the pain in his head gone. Had it been a dream? He winced, as the world spun around him. His whole head still seemed to be a dull ache, even if the agony of the scar had abated.

"Steady, Harry," Ron told him, and Harry saw a blurred shape spinning round his ear put out a hand- and felt a hand settle on his shoulder.

"Ron...?" Harry felt around for his glasses, failed to find them,and barked his knuckles against a stone wall behind him. He worked his way back, feeling nauseous with every slightest movement that made everything swim before his eyes. "Where... am... I..." A random thought occurred to him.

If I'm ill, Ginny will kill me.

"Round the bloody bend, if you ask me," Ron told him. "Are you OK?" He knelt in front of Harry, and put a hand to the other boy's throat.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking your pulse." Ron told him. "At least, I think so. Dunno if it's your pulse or how fast you're swallowing, to be honest... at least I don't think you're dead, mate."

"What... happened...?" His voice sounded odd to him, but perhaps it was his hearing. Damn, hearing and sight both out of action. He shook his head to try to clear it, but only managed to focus the headache at the base of his brain. The blurry image of Ron on his retina separated into two different blurry images. He tried to put a hand out to steady the world, but his limbs all felt like matchsticks far away.

"Beats me," Ron shrugged. "I'm guessing You-Know-Who had another party in your head or something. Whatever it was, it was a big one."

"Last... night?"

"Yeah," Ron told him, and Harry let his head loll back against the wall. "You'd just about finished pacing up and down and stopping everyone getting to sleep, and then you picked up the pensieve... then you dropped it, and, well, sorry Harry, but you sort of shrieked."

A face, gazing out of the bowl as I touched the first of my thoughts to it. A face without a nose. A flat, non-human face. A laughing face.

Ron stopped, and looked at him. Harry couldn't focus enough to make out the other boy's expression, but he heard Ron say in a queer voice:

"You don't remember any of it?"

"Any of it?" Harry croaked, alarmed. "What happened?"

"Well, we all sat up and stared at you- and then you started screaming, and sort of holding your head in your hands... there was a minute I thought you were going to smash your skull in on the bedpost. Neville tried to grab you and you sent him flying- then, while we were all trying to work out what to do, you ran for it."

Ron shifted in front of him. The Boy-Who-Lived pressed his hands firmly to the base of his skull, and screwed his eyes up tight, trying to force lucidity and consciousness back into him. Everything was... grey and blurred. When he tried to think back, the pain- or the memory of the pain, grew layer upon layer in his head, a thumping, pounding, remorseless drumbeat of a thing that became so loud as to drive out all thought if he tried to look into the later part of the evening.

"Ginny and me- and Hermione, once we'd managed to persuade her that if we were breaking school rules being out looking for you at night, then we were making up for it by helping you back to the Tower so you _weren't_ out at night," he added, with a slightly sarcastic burr in his voice, before returning to normal, "Have been looking for you most of the night."

"Sorry..." Harry bowed his head. The pain was easing- so long as he gave up on any hope of memory. He felt a wave of hopelessness crest inside his mind. If just the mind of Voldemort could do so much- how could he ever hope to face him in combat?

"No problem," Ron shrugged. "Are you ready to move yet?" he asked, holding out a hand. "We're somewhere near the Room of Requirements, so we've got a bit of a way to go, and I'm guessing you'd rather get back before everyone else starts getting up and going down to breakfast and finds you've been wandering round the place in your pyjamas."

Something Ron had said earlier snatched at Harry's attention as, very unsteadily, he slowly pulled himself to his feet- adding feet nearly numb with pins and needles and the cold to his problems. He wondered how long he'd lain on the cold flagstones, and winced as large portions of his hips and backbone took the opportunity to, with quite unnecessary bile and acidity, he thought, give him their resentful estimates.

"Gin...?" he asked his friend. Just the thought of her made things seem a little brighter. "Is she here?"

Ron shook his head.

"We split up. I think Hermione was trying around the Headmaster's staircase, and Ginny said something about down by the lake- I didn't catch where," he told him, putting an arm around Harry's shoulders to support him. "I'm assuming she was worried you'd fallen in," he added, before saying, in a more sombre tone of voice, "You gave us all a good scare, Harry."

"Sorry Ron..." he said again. "I just... I can't remember any of it... he..."

"Later," Ron told him. "Right now you've got a date with my baby sister, in case you've forgotten. Come on, Harry... what you'd do without me looking out for you, I don't know..."

They limped along the corridors, Harry in particular desperately hoping not to meet anybody before they got back to Gryffindor Tower. It wasn't roaming around the school in his pyjamas that bothered him, but the looks. Not the 'oh, there goes Potty Wee Potter again' looks- he'd grown almost inured to them last year, but the other looks. The sympathy, the attempts to look understanding. Somehow it was different from Ginny and his other two best friends. Somehow he didn't mind that. That surprised him a little, since he knew that last year he'd have minded very much indeed. They had all grown so much closer in the darkness.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor- hard boots treading the ground urgently and unforgivingly. Harry groaned. He recognised the steps, although the fog and pain in his brain kept their name out of his grasp. Ron weaved at a junction, uncertain about which direction the steps were coming from- and spotted St Barnabas' statue in the distance.

"Should have thought of that," he told Harry under his breath, steering them both that way. "We'll get you cleaned up and civilised in the Requirement Room." They staggered towards the statue- but it was the wrong path to take.

"Potter, Weasley!" Severus Snape billowed up from the other end of the corridor, looking like a mad, black bat in Harry's unfocused vision. "What in Slytherin's name are you doing wandering the corridors at this time of the morning?"

"Sorry, Professor," Ron groaned. Of all the people they had to run into...? Ron had once suggested the theory that Snape spent his free time skulking the corridors, waiting to pop up and catch Harry and Ron at unwelcome moments. The theory grew more convincing all the time. "Harry had a..." he cut himself off. After all the Occlumency business last year, not to mention Harry's attack on Snape over the summer, perhaps that wasn't the best thing to say. He held his tongue. Snape folded his arms, and then snapped, acidly, when it became clear no answer was forthcoming,

"Weasley, you will report to the Headmaster's office at once."

"What?" Ron gasped, far too loudly and close to Harry's ear for comfort. "But I was just helping him, and..."

"Don't argue with me." Snape looked tired and irritable. "Potter, kindly recollect that nightwear is intended for the dormitory, not the highways and byways of the castle. Weasley," he added, peremptorily, and turned on his heel.

Harry and Ron started after him, the latter mouthing obscenities at the Potions' Master's back. Snape paused after about five paces, his back rigid. Ron winced, but it was not Ron's silent comments that had aroused Snape's ire.

"The summons was for Weasley alone, Potter." He said, coldly.

"But he's not well," Ron protested, while Harry, a little weakly, but forcing his voice, demanded to know what was going on. Snape spun on his heel and looked down at Harry, eyes glittering blackly with contempt.

"That, you may discover when you are in a fit condition to listen. For now, understand that your colleague has been sent for, and you... have not." That said, he whipped out a bony hand and seized Ron by the shoulder, almost pulling him away down the corridor. "Come, Weasley."

Ron, looking absolutely furious, saw Harry stagger against the stone wall, but manage to keep his balance- albeit more by luck than judgement.

"Room of Requirements," he shouted. "Don't forget Ginny, and please... let Hermione know if I'm late!"

Harry nodded to him, and then screwed his eyes tight, trying to stop the corridor rotating. By the time he'd managed to bring reality down to a gentle swirl in front of his eyes, Ron and Snape were both out of sight. With a deep breath, he started to pull himself along the wall towards the statue.

Getting into the Room felt like the hardest thing he'd done in his life, but he managed it, and found a much smaller room than usual, occupied simply with a hand basin with a small, cracked mirror over it, a lavatory, and a clothes hook on the back of the door, on which hung his DA uniform. A cursory search revealed no glasses. A pity. He dressed, clumsily, then lurched over to the basin, nearly falling and cracking his head open on it as he did so, and slumped against it.

After what seemed an eternity, Harry reached out to turn on the tap. He missed, then tried again. Finally he managed it, and the water started to flow._Toothbrush? _

He found one- stuck to the underside of the basin with something that he prayed wasn't chewing gum, and brushed his teeth. Then, as he rinsed and spat out the remains of the toothpaste, he noticed that the plug was still in the sink. With a faint grimace, he pulled the chain out, and watched the semi-opaque cloud of dirty water drain away. For a moment, it grew more translucent, and a face was reflected back at him.

_The face of a dead-white snake, red eyes gleaming, thin-lipped mouth parted in triumph._

The pain jolted once again through his scar, and Harry's head jerked upright- and he screamed.

There was another face in the mirror, but not a phantom, not a shadow, a face that seemed somehow even more real than the glimpse he had of his own face's reflection, just behind it. A face screaming in silent agony, a face he knew but could not name, mouth wide open, flames licking at the throat, the fire lashing across the skin, eyes staring, pleading, the hair aflame and smoking. Harry twisted his head away, pulse racing with terror, but his eyes could not tear themselves from that silent plea for mercy, and the burning face's screams became suddenly audible in the darkness of his brain.

Harry tore one hand from the basin's edge, trying to cover his eyes, leaning backward- and as his balance slipped from under him and he fell back to the floor, the back of his head struck the floorboards, and his memories reached gleefully out to reclaim him.

* * *

The green fire of the Floo evaporated from around him, and he strode out majestic and terrible. The screams began. He turned, surprised, and delight played across his features as the Aurors fought to over-ride their panic. Gleefully, as his followers materialised in the other grates around the hallway, he allowed his enemies a moment's grace. He had known that the one he sought was here- his source's reliability was as beyond question as its greed, but to find so many here awaiting the rest he offered them was beyond his expectations. For a moment, the possibility of a trap occurred to him, but he dismissed it. The Aurors' shock and terror was all too real. Besides, what would a trap matter? His foes were prepared now. He lashed aside the first six curses that winged their way to him, and raised his own wand.

"Crucio!" Like a signal it went out, the agony, and the eight Death Eaters with him struck out in turn. The screams were a beautiful symphony in the hall of the Ministry of Magic.

"Avada Kedavra!" the cry was desperate, not one of his followers, but one of the Aurors,disciplinebroken by the fear. A Death Eater fell dead. The curse had been meant for Voldemort himself, but the Imperius Curse he had cast had easily awakened the man's natural desire to protect his master at any cost. He disarmed the Auror, and advanced on him. All the others had fallen, twitching heaps felled by Cruciatus who were now being cleanly and neatly dispatched by Malfoy and the others. Lord Voldemort forced the surviving Auror to his knees, taking the man's chin in his hand and lifting his face.

"You understand the nature of war..." he breathed. The Auror shook his head in terror, whimpering. Voldemort smiled, and raised his wand to the man's eyes. "There is strength in the darkness, my foe," the Dark Lord purred. "Crucio." He gave the pain gladly, and watched as the man before him sunk to the ground, writhing in agony. Then, "Stupefy." He turned to Bellatrix.

"Take this one alive. Entertain him. Draw him on, and change him, bind him to my will in the darkness. He has killed a Death Eater, so let us see if he has earned the right to take his place."

"As you command, my lord." Bella gave the huddled form a cruel and hungry look, and levitated it towards the fire grate, stepping over the fallen body of Randolphus Lestrange as she did so.

"Now, my friends..." Voldemort turned, and stalked through the carnage. At the far end of the hall, a ministry wizard, rubbing his eyes at the lateness of the hour, stepped out of the lift, and yawned. Then he opened his mouth to scream. He was dead before the first note of his cry touched the air. "The new order of magic arises, and the old must be shown the true power of darkness." He felt a sardonic smile touch his lips. "And I have personal business... with the Minister."

* * *

They moved through the building, spreading out. All throughout its corridors he sensed the Avada Kedavra, then the Dark Mark rising. Then, ahead, high in the building, Lord Voldemort heard the words of his prey. 

"... drat the woman. Keeping us here at all hours... no gratitude at all after all I did for her... that mess she caused last year... if she doesn't turn up soon I'll bally well remind her who's the Minister of Magic."

"Yes, sir," another voice, smoothly unctuous. Then Fudge again, as a thunderclap of magic shook the building.

"Damn it all, what the Hecate is that noise!" Ahead, a door was wrenched open, and a face, puffed up, pompous, stared out- and his eyes saw the Dark Lord ahead of him but his brain refused to make the connection.

"You there!" He snapped his fingers at Voldemort, even while the terror grew in his eyes, and continued, mechanically, all life draining from his commands even as he spoke them. "What... on... Earth... is... going... on... stop this infernal racket..." Fudge froze, then a final word came from his lips. "Please..." The door slammed. Voldemort smiled, and swept towards it. All the others had left his side now, to spread his glorious word elsewhere. It did not matter. This was his moment, his jewel.

As he shattered the door, two Stunning spells bounced off his shield and dissipated. He stepped over the threshold, taking in the fat figure of Cornelius Fudge cowering behind a desk, and in the opposite corner a red-haired secretary, face white with fear, desperately trying to keep his wand levelled, an owl cowering beneath his desk.

"Minister of Magic," Voldemort purred, smoothly advancing on him. "I have something to show you." His hand dipped into a fold of his robe, found what he sought, and cast it down to his feet beneath the dark material. Something moved. Fudge stared down at the hem of the Dark Lord's robes with mounting horror as a shape brushed against the fabric, then pushed its way out. A foot? A claw. A tiny clawed foot, with one toe missing. Blinking, the scabrous rat crawled out into the light. Uncomprehending, the Minister looked back up at Voldemort's monstrous face, and met the terrifying intensity of the Dark Lord's smile.

"Insignificant, Mr Fudge?" Voldemort lilted. "Perhaps not. Perhaps it is the business of the Minister to concern himself with mankind, whether... significant_ or otherwise." His snake-grin broadened, and his tongue flicked out, tasting the fear in the air. "Wormtail, become." _

Slowly, the rat grew, rearing up on its hind legs, its rodent snout diminishing, eyes whitening and taking on the look of one trapped- and desperate for vengeance and release.

"Dear God, it's not possible..." he heard Fudge gasp, and felt a song of delight rise in his dark heart.

"No... no, no..." the secretary croaked, as he looked at the thing that had been Scabbers the rat, a creeping horror and loathing spreading across his face. Eyes wild, he swung his wand at Peter Pettigrew- but the small Animagus was quicker.

"Crucio!" Pettigrew squeaked, and Percy Weasley was flung back against the wall, limbs twisting in agony.

"Fly, Hermes!" Percy croaked desperately, and the screech owl launched itself for the window- but, again, Peter was faster, and his wand whirled as Voldemort watched with paternalistic glee.

"Incendio!" There was one, hoarse shriek, and a flaming ball of feathers struck the wall by the open window and fell to the ground. Then, aside from a rough sobbing, there was silence. Pettigrew turned his head back to Percy, and wordlessly held up one forearm, showing three livid, old ragged scars across it- the clawmarks of an owl on the flesh of a rodent.

"I was your pet first," he said, in a curiously pathetic tone. "You shouldn't have forgotten that."

Cornelius Fudge had pressed himself back against one wall. He looked between Pettigrew and Voldemort.

"That... that's Peter Pettigrew..." he choked.

"Yes, Minister." Voldemort prowled one step closer.

"Then Sirius Black was..."

"Yes, Minister."

"Then all young Harry was trying to say..."

"Yes, Minister."

Fresh horror blossomed in his eyes, and his wand snapped back into position.

"Weasley, get out of here!" Fudge shouted, trying to throw himself between Voldemort and Percy. The Dark Lord caught him by the wrist in a grip of velvet steel and slowly pulled Cornelius in towards his face. The Minister struggled.

"Get... out... of my country..." he sobbed. "Leave my people alone... please..."

Voldemort's red eyes blazed, and he snatched the Minister's wand, crushing it between finger and thumb. Slowly, he held Fudge up to his eyes.

"Your people," he purred, exulting in the terror in the man's eyes. "Harry Potter is one of your people, Minister. A wizard, and a hero, to whom you owe a debt of life-long gratitude... and of trust, Minister. Yet your terror, your pathetic desire to hide your face from the truth..." he brought Fudge even nearer to him, to emphasise that, his tongue flicking out, almost touching the Minister's nose, "... almost destroyed him. You turned his friends against him, shattered his faith in his own people," Voldemort's voice ground it out damningly. "Almost cast him out of the world of his birthright for ever, just because you were afraid of the truth." Without warning, his arm swung wide, flinging Cornelius Fudge through the air, until the man struck the wall with an agonising crack and slid down it, one leg hanging awkwardly, hands and feet scrabbling for balance as he slipped to his knees.

Voldemort advanced, wand in hand, his face a rictus of death, the light in his eyes fey and terrible.

"Can you imagine what that felt like, Minister? To be cast out, alone in your world, for no crime but the truth?" he hissed. "Can you feel the pain in him? The suffering? The agony? All this wrought by one whose duty_, whose responsibility was to keep him safe and to have faith in him?" Fudge whimpered, shaking his head again and again, as the Dark Lord knelt in front of him and aimed his wand at the Minister's forehead. _

"This," Voldemort murmured softly, "Is for Harry."

Fudge screamed- a short, terrified choke of panic as he saw the Dark Lord's white spider-like fingers tighten around his wand, broken off in a sudden breath of incomprehension as Voldemort's hand opened, and the wand fell to the ground. He panted, staring in the face of sudden, impossible, indecipherable relief... and moments after Lord Voldemort's wand had touched the floor, the Dark Lord's hand curled back, his fingers slipping into place around Fudge's throat. Voldemort stood tall, dragging Fudge with him, and, with the slightest effort of finger and thumb, snapped the Minister of Magic's neck.

"Minister!" Percy croaked, unable to silence the cry of shock, and, his delight surging through his veins, Voldemort turned, moving with slow and twisted satisfaction across the room, past Wormtail,towards the young man, his eyes taking in the shock of red hair, his memory- and Harry's own- furnishing him with what he needed to know.

"Percy Ignatius Weasley," he whispered. "I remember your family well_, young man. Yes... especially your dear sister," a cruel light glittered in his eyes once more, and Percy scrambled to his feet, pressing himself against the wall, trying to edge around towards his wand. Voldemort allowed a dull, disappointed tone to enter his voice. _

"I once begged a service of her. The least of things," he told Percy, "In return for all that I could grant her. Only one thing I asked from her, a life she had already grown to weary of." He bared sharp, pointed teeth. "She rejected me, Weasley, fought me... willed young Harry to destroy me." The smile spread back across his features, and he summoned his wand to his hand. Percy made a desperate lunge for his own, but Voldemort flung him back with one hand, and the boy caught hold of his overturned desk to keep himself from falling.

"Your family owes me a human life, Weasley. That debt, I claim now." His eyes flickered to the wooden desk under Percy's hand, and his wand arced through the air.

"Naturam invigorus tordue envahnis!"

For a moment, Percy's eyes flickered in confusion- then started with pain. His arm twisted, trying to pull his hand back- but the wood was rippling under him, greening with life, small roots and branches pushing their way up from the grain- and where Percy's hand was suddenly pinned to it, small movements surged and tore beneath his skin.

"A... I... ohh... please..." he choked, and his arm straightened with a creaking sound, twisting, growing deformed and thickened as something forced its way along beside the bone. His skin began to stretch, the nodules of roots, drawing sustenance from his body, burrowing and pushing their way through his flesh, pushing up under the skin in a grotesque pattern. He screamed, as his spine was arched back.

Voldemort moved around him, gazing in fascination at the terror and agony in the boy's eyes. Then, as the plant matter continued to corruptthe young manfrom within, the Dark Lord stepped back, raising his wand to Percy once again.

"Incendio!" The Dark Lord called out, and Percy shrieked as fire flashed from Voldemort's wand-tip, engulfing his legs and, with horrendous speed, spreading up his trunk, crackling merrily as it went. Voldemort leant closer- and heard a voice in the deep places of his mind, screaming in fear.

significantdutywell 

"No! Please don't... he's not going to hurt you, he's got nothing to do with this... he's her brother!"

The voice choked on itself.

"Ah, Harry, but how he betrayed us..." Voldemort fixed his eyes on Percy as he burned, twisting and screaming in agony. "And how strong the debt his sister owes still. Would you prefer that I take it from her? I know you would not," he hissed, enraptured by the flame.

"Harry!" Percy had twisted his head forward, his face blackened but still recognisable, madness growing in his eyes as he felt what was being done to him, but still within some glint of Percy Weasley remained. He let loose another scream, and fought it down, struggling to keep his eyes on that glint behind the cruel gaze of Lord Voldemort. "You have to... know..." Percy's face was aflame now, and his voice a rasping crack, "They... didn't want you... know... but... you can't... can't kill him, Harry!" He screamed again, and fell, a burning huddle on the smoking floorboards. Desperately, Percy flung his head back up, and looked at Voldemort with sightless eyes. "He's already dead!" Then he twisted back, the agony burning him away, and only screams came from him.

"Please!"

Harry's voice echoed through the Dark Lord's mind.

"Please... don't do it, please, he was my friend once, he's just a..."

"You wish to see mercy, Potter?" Voldemort gloated.

"Please..."

"Then see the true measure of compassion. Thy will be done." The Dark Lord added, his rapture of malice singing in the dark, and raised his wand to Percy for the last time.

"Avada Kedavra."

* * *

The ceiling of the Room of Requirements spun over Harry's head, and eyes burning with tears opened as he screamed.

It couldn't be true. It was true. He had to stop it. It was too late to stop it.

He clawed his way to his feet, the pain in his scar redoubled now that his memories had been unlocked to him, and weaved his way through a fog of agony towards the door.

Dumbledore. He had to get to Dumbledore. Of course, he realised with a sick lurch of his stomach, as he half-crawled out into the corridor. Students passing by looked at him in shock. Someone put a hand out to steady him but, with a snarl, he knocked it away. Of course, that was why Ron had been summoned to the Headmaster's office.

Damn Snape!

Harry thought savagely, and dragged himself along the wall. The Potions' Master had deliberately excluded him... except perhaps not. Perhaps the terrible news Dumbledore had to give would have had to be given out to the Weasleys alone. The war could wait. Now though... he had to get there. He had to find out what had really happened- had to know what could happen now. Something had to be done. He stopped, breathing rapidly. He couldn't get into the Headmaster's office. Dumbledore had- long ago at the dawn of term- given him a book. The password, changing as the true password changed, would be written there. His room in Gryffindor Tower. He had to reach it, then on, on to Dumbledore's office. He pushed himself away from the wall, fighting the pain, forcing one foot in front of the other. He would remember the pain. He would remember the agony. A time would come when they would be repaid in full.

* * *

He never remembered reaching the portrait hole, never remembered crossing the Common Room and climbing the stairs. All seemed hidden behind a haze of red blood until he staggered into his dormitory. Just... a few minutes rest. He had to keep moving. Just rest a moment. He could not. Harry nearly fell against the bedpost, and his vision weaved across the room in response to a slight sound, an involuntary moan of surprise. A hunched shape in one of the beds- Ron's- trying to bury itself in the covers, a red head of hair turned face down into the pillow, and a choking, wracking sob. 

Harry dropped to his knees, the bile rising in his throat, and crawled. The figure in the bed moved- and at the same time he caught a different smell, a different feel to the figure.

"Harry...?" she croaked out past a throat sore with crying.

"Ginny..." he gasped, and pulled himself, light-headed as he was, to his feet, staggering the two paces further to the bed and collapsing again to his knees next to it, holding out a hand and feeling it seized in a grip as tight as a vice.

"Harry, I couldn't stay," she told him, her voice lost and quiet, "I couldn't stay there when they told me something so horrible, I had to get away, they're taking Ron away to London but they can't take me, I had to run because if I went with them it would be true..." she pulled her face towards him, her eyes red and fixed into the distance. "It mustn't be true, Harry, it can't be..." she looked into his face. "Please..." she sobbed. "It isn't true. He's alive. He's... he's my brother, Harry, and he's alive. He's alive..." she repeated it again and again, but quieter each time, gradually seeing the truth in his eyes. "Please tell me he's alive," she whispered.

"I... I can't, Gin," the tears ran down his own cheeks, and, imperfect as his vision was, he saw something of her soul crumple up and fade in flames somewhere in the depths of her eyes.

Ginny made a terrible sound in her throat, and shuddered. Then, her grip on his hand tightening until it was agonising for him, she asked him,

"Was it... was it quick?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, and lowered his head.

With a faint, unsteady exhalation of breath, her hand slipped out of his, and she turned over sharply, eyes still staring into the distance. Her other fist, clenched about something metallic, slid out from under the covers. There was a crack, and the tiniest of moans of pain from Ginny, and a few spots of blood dripped from her hand on to the blanket. As Harry opened his eyes again, he leant across her, gently opening her wounded hand, and taking from it the thing that had cut her. It was his spectacles. She'd been looking for him, he remembered. She must have taken them with her. Either that or snatched them up and held on to them when she'd run here, to Ron's room to hide. She had been holding them, clenched tightly in her fist like a talisman, and now, at the last blow, her hand had contracted, breaking the glass and bending the frame, twisting them out of shape as if beaten by a hammer.


	20. Broken

****

Chapter Twenty: Broken

He spread her unresisting fingers wide and tilted her hand, pouring the loose pieces of glass from the broken lens off into his own cupped hand, and putting them on the table beside the bed, next to the twisted frames. Then, standing with great effort, and clenching his jaw until his teeth hurt, trying to fight the convulsion in his stomach and the percussive beat of pain in his skull, he staggered slowly round the bed and kneeled facing her. Ginny's tight-shut eyes snapped open, wide and fearful, and she made to roll away from him again, her injured hand clenching into a fist. He caught her arm and held her back.

"Hush... I'm going to... going to clean this out," he told her, numbly, prising her fingers apart again, and, wincing as he did it, starting to ease little glittering splinters of glass out of her skin. Ginny stared straight ahead now, her tear streaked face slack, those warm brown eyes from which so much life had always shone dark now, an empty question. She showed no reaction to the pain in her hand, no flicker of interest. Harry crawled back to his own bed, swallowing several times, and took a cloth from his table, before gingerly taking to his feet again and stepping over to the row of hand basins against one wall of the Boy's Dormitory. As he turned on the tap, Percy Weasley's screaming, burning face flashed up again out of his memory, and he was violently sick into the basin. He leant forward, coughing and retching, the foul smell of his own vomit making the gorge rise in his throat again, and again, until the muscles of his stomach throbbed with an agony that matched that of his head, and his whole body was seized with a fit of shivering. Harry stepped away from the basin, and fell back, twisting as he fell and pulling the carpet around him, his system still retching, but with nothing left to come up. His legs shook, and he crawled back to the table, taking up his wand and aiming it at the sink.

"Scou--" he began, and remembered the Dark Lord telling him the true measure of compassion. Something lurched inside him, and he flung himself forward again, as he found that his stomach was not yet quite empty.

Harry hung forward over the basin, his lips trembling, hair lank and soaked with sweat. Finally, he drew himself up, keeping his eyes closed.

"Scourgify!" he managed, pouring as much power as he could manage into it, and repeated the spell on himself, once, twice, three times. He sank to his knees. The foul smell was gone, at least, and the sink gleamed pristine white once more. Still, he crawled to the next one to wet the cloth, and turned back to Ginny.

She lay there, so still that he thought she might be dead, but for the slightest rise and fall of her breath. He walked to her, every limb and organ feeling hollow, empty, and fell forward on to his kneecaps. The pain screamed at him in some part of his brain that had given up for the moment, and he took her hand in his again, and began to wash out the three small cuts he found there.

When he had finished, he started to take his hand from hers, and her fingers closed around it. He looked, startled, to her face, but Ginny's stare was still as blank, as uncomprehendingly horrified as before, except now, almost imperceptibly, she shook her head. Again. Every minute or so, as her lips twitched slightly in some silent, internal dialogue, she would shake her head, denying whatever she had just told herself.

Harry had no idea what to do. Should he try to say something? Could he? How could he? After all, Voldemort had... he had been Voldemort, and Ginny knew how he and the Dark Lord mixed in his dreams, she would know what he had seen and done from behind the Dark Lord's eyes. What could he, especially he, possibly say to her?

He knew now what he had not known last year, when Arthur Weasley had been attacked- he knew for certain that the will behind the murders had not been his- but still, like a command to Voldemort, which he in his cruelty had taken up and obeyed, it had been Harry that had ordained the end to Percy's torment.

Should he let her be, then? Stay by her silent and let her grief run as it would? Was there anything else he could do?

He left his hand in hers- any attempt to tighten the grip and she twisted it, tried to pull away, but relaxed as he did, and if he tried to slide his hand away she, in turn, held it tighter, so he left it as it was, moving round so that his forearm lay flat on the bed beside her, and letting his legs curl under him on the thin rug beside Ron's bed, until he huddled below her, head lifted watching her face for a time, then sinking down into his chest.

He didn't know how long he sat there, his headache gradually subsiding into the general pain that covered his body, occasionally raising his head as Ginny made some slight movement. Once, she screamed out 'No', and he rose, trying to take her head in his hands and speak to her, but she twisted her face away, trembling violently for a while before sinking back into the same blank horror as before. At one point, he heard the door open, and voices in the room. He didn't trouble to distinguish them, and the door closed again seconds later. Ginny's head rolled back towards him, her eyes sought him out, and he started to speak, but then she shook her head again, and screwed her eyelids tightly shut, her hand squeezing around his painfully.

* * *

The door opened again. 

"H.. Harry?" the voice was Hermione's. She- like Ginny and Ron, when he'd seen him earlier, was still wearing their clothes of yesterday night, a legacy of their search for him. Her face too, was streaked with tears, much as Harry imagined his own to be. She came closer, looked over him at Ginny.

"I've... I've told Professor McGonagall you've found her," Hermione told him shakily. "She's on her way up." She looked at him. "Professor Dumbledore told us about the attack at breakfast."

Harry looked at Ginny, eyes closed, unlistening, uncaring, but awake, then back to Hermione.

"Ron?" he asked, in a faint voice. Hermione closed her eyes briefly.

"Dumbledore's taken him to London," she told him. "They've closed down all the Floo networks, and Dumbledore didn't think it would be safe to use a Portkey. I just managed to get past Snape- we're all supposed to be confined to the Common Rooms- and see him in the Entrance Hall. They were going to take Ginny too, but the train will have gone now- I think Dumbledore wanted..." she stopped, and turned away for a moment, then back, wiping her eyes with her hand. "I think he wanted to get Ron to... to his parents. Ginny ran," she added.

"I know." Harry told her tightly, and turned back to the stricken girl.

"McGonagall will be here soon," Hermione repeated. "Do you want me to..." She trailed off. Harry didn't answer her.

Professor McGonagall came into the room a few moments later, somewhat out of breath from the climb, her face pale, and with a strange and deathly look on her face. Percy had been quite a gifted student in her classes, Harry remembered, and the few years since his departure were barely moments in time. Then, too, so many others, so many deaths.

"Ah, Potter," she said, in a small, choked voice. "Thank you, Miss Granger... and Virginia is found, thank the heavens..." she looked lost. "I have already owled Molly and Arthur, explained to them that she can't make the journey today..." she sat down heavily in the chair on the other side of the bed. "If Professor Dumbledore returns in time he may be able to take her down on the Express tomorrow... if not, then I..."

"No," Harry grated. "No, you stay here with the school... please, Professor. I'll take Ginny to London."

McGonagall looked uncertain.

"The school needs you here, Professor." He forced himself up to his knees, still clutching Ginny's hand, and cast a silencer-shield charm over the bed as he spoke, hoping not to disturb her. "If He came north..."

McGonagall's face blanched, but she nodded.

"Very well, Harry," she closed her eyes. "Please keep her safe- if anything happened to her, to any of them, after this... Arthur and Molly..." she broke off, shaking her head sharply, and dabbing ineffectually at her eyes with a large handkerchief.

Harry peered at her through his blurred vision.

"I'll look after her, Professor," he repeated, all the while feeling, in his heart, that there was nothing any could do against the darkness. "They'll have to kill me before they hurt her again."

McGonagall turned her head away. Silently, Hermione offered her a fresh handkerchief, then brought the Deputy Headmistress a mug of water from the sink. Her hand shaking somewhat, Professor McGonagall drank, in great gulps entirely unlike her usual genteel sips of tea.

Hermione saw down on one of the other beds, and folded her hands in her lap. After a while spent watching Ginny, and seeing that the girl was not likely to change for the moment, she cleared her throat.

"The question is, what happens now?" she asked. McGonagall looked at her, and set down the mug, attempting to dry her eyes.

"Well," she began, her voice still quavering. "The Ministry will appoint an emergency Acting Minister-- until such time as a by-election can be held in Hogsmeade, of course, to choose a new member of parliament- and then the Wizengamot must petition the Muggle Prime Minister to appoint that M.P. to the position of Minister for Magic." She swallowed, blinking slightly. "That must take place within a year- so the election will probably wait until the Muggles' General Election next May," she told them. "Until then, the Acting Minister will have emergency powers allowing him or her to oversee the business of the Ministry."

"And who's that likely to be?" Hermione exchanged a worried glance with Harry. McGonagall's lip twisted.

"There is one... very apparent candidate in the upper echelons of the Ministry," she said, and the venom in her voice left no doubt as to that person's identity.

"No!" Hermione jumped to her feet. "They can't make _her_ Minister of Magic, Professor..." she spluttered. "Mr Weasley said there'd been an enquiry... said she'd never be in power again..."

"While Cornelius Fudge was Minister," McGonagall finished. "I feel much the same as you, Miss Granger... but I'm afraid that while the former Minister was alive, Dolores Umbridge's chances of gaining another foothold on power were very slim. She was very deeply in his confidence, and it was his fear of being tarred with the brush of her disgrace that held her back. Now... though, the Ministry will be looking for a leader, a militant." She grimaced. "I fear many other, better leaders perished alongside Cornelius Fudge and poor Percy Weasley last night."

"Conveniently." Harry growled, and they both looked down at him, startled.

"Mr Potter, I accept that Dolores Umbridge is many things," Professor McGonagall told him sadly, "But there is nothing to link her to He Who Must Not Be Named. I fear though, that she will be the first to take advantage of this tragedy."

"Nothing to link her except Fudge himself," Harry said, his voice low, cold, and bitter. "Just before he died I overheard- Voldemort overheard- the Minister say that 'she' was keeping him waiting, and that 'she' was someone who'd caused a lot of trouble last year."

Professor McGonagall looked at him wide-eyed in shock.

"How can you know that, Potter?" she stared.

"I saw it." Harry told her, blankly. The Professor's hand went to her throat, and she shook her head slightly, as the implications sank in.

"You saw... all of.."

"Enough," Harry said flatly. "He wanted me to see it."

"My God..." she stroked her thin cheek with a pale hand, and took a swaying step towards him. "Harry... I'm so sorry. I didn't think that... I never..." she checked herself. "Are you all right?" she asked, then snapped her mouth shut, aware of the foolishness of the question. Harry looked hard at her for a moment, and then emphatically shook his head. McGonagall sank into her chair.

After a while, Hermione spoke.

"It's not enough, Harry. There's no evidence- no, don't start shouting at me, there really is no evidence that a court would believe."

"Then find me some." Harry told her balefully. "Because if I find Umbridge did set this up, and you can't put her on trial for it, I swear I'll rip her limb from limb."

"Mr Potter, that doesn't help!" the Professor snapped, apparently having recovered enough to speak once more. Her tone softened slightly. "Delores will face justice in one court or another, Harry, and by my hand if by nobody else's," she added, looking at the pain in Ginny's silent face with a terrible anger in her eyes, "But for now we have to cope with the situation we have. The country is in disarray- the Ministry is effectively out of action for at least the next few weeks, and people's terror of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is rising. The Headmaster and I have already received notice of an enquiry from the Governors, into whether Hogwarts should not be closed for the future- if the children wouldn't be safer with their families," she elaborated. "I intend," she continued, over-riding Hermione's protestations with a hand, "To oppose this. Professor Dumbledore and I both feel that the young witches and wizards of this country have a right to... to live their lives," she stumbled over the words.

Harry was standing, leaning over Ginny, watching her movements. She seemed, at last, to have subsided into some sort of sleep, although her eyes flickered frenetically beneath their lids. Her grip on his hand loosened, and in a sudden, spasmodic twitch, she pulled away from him. Looking lost for a moment, he half-reached after her and then, not wishing to disturb her, sank into another chair.

"Also, that Professor Dumbledore... and the protective wards of Hogwarts," McGonagall was continuing, "Would offer our next generation a greater hope of survival than separated in their own homes." She bowed her head. "I do not know what they will decide." Then she looked up again. "In any case, I would like your co-operation. You, Miss Granger, are a prefect. It was also Professor Dumbledore's intention to appoint you, Mr Potter, to the position of Head Boy next year- but since the current Head Boy is one of those whose parents have requested that he be removed from the school, and given your undeniable involvement in the situation, I am asking for your help in this matter now, Harry." She sighed. "School discipline and security must be tightened... immeasurably. We cannot allow students to leave the campus, cannot permit anyone to stray into the forest, or to in any other manner place themselves in jeopardy." She gave Harry a penetrating look, which he returned dully.

"It is said, Mr Potter, that poachers make the best gamekeepers. Please- once you are returned from London- try to help us in this regard. The survival of the school- and of some of its students- might depend on it."

* * *

Harry buried his head in his hands. They'd gone now- McGonagall and Hermione- the former back to her office, trying to restore some order to the school, and Hermione going back downstairs to round up the Gryffindor students, and then to see Hagrid to arrange a coach and pair of Thestrals to take Ginny and himself to the railway station tomorrow. He looked up at Ginny again, a furious anger flashing through him for a moment. How dare McGonagall talk about saving the school, protecting innocents? It was too late... too late... Then it faded, and his head sank down again, tears flowing from his eyes.

No, no, I can't let it happen again. I can't let it have happened. I can't change it. I can get revenge. That's not going to help them.

He wrenched his head back, and started, seeing Ginny's eyes open, looking at him. She'd been crying again.

"Is Percy here?" she asked, waveringly. A terrible moment of fear swept through his mind, and he leant towards her. She pushed herself up slightly, into a half-sitting position, leaning on one elbow, and said sadly, "He's not, is he?"

"Ginny..." Harry began, hopelessly. Ginny swallowed, painfully.

"He _is _dead, isn't he?" she said, in a lifeless tone.

Harry parted his lips. Ginny's eyes flicked to him, then away, painfully.

"Yes." The word dragged itself out of him, its corners tearing the sensitive flesh of his mouth, and Ginny's eyes filled with tears once more.

"He's my brother, Harry..." she wept. "I love him... I love him... why isn't that enough?"

He took her in his arms, and held her as the tears flowed, her small body heaving with grief.

"I don't know, Gin, I just... damn it, I don't know what... I don't know."

He held her for a long time, until the tears would no longer come for either of them, and each stared hopelessly across the room. Finally, Ginny pulled back from him.

"I have to..." she began, in a rusty voice. "I..."

"What is it, Gin?" he looked her in the eyes. There seemed to be so little there any more.

"I have to go to the loo," she told him, and a smile cracked across her face at his surprised expression. Then, a second later, she twisted her head away, eyes screwed shut, furious with herself, hating herself for forgetting- even for a second. He waited, knowing better than to reach out to her.

"One turn down the staircase," he told her, when she seemed to have reached some sort of equilibrium again, remembering that she'd hardly had time to familiarise herself with the domestic arrangements on her way in. "Door on the right." She slipped out of the bed, and walked- in a curious stilted motion- to the door. Harry hesitated. He didn't know whether he should go with her to outside the door of the lavatory or not. Did she need to be left alone? He shook his head again, and pushed his fingers through his lank hair. There wasn't any right answer. Nothing could be right.

He let his head sink down on to the pillow. That was better. The scent of her hair drifted into his nostrils, calming him. He remembered her laughing, sitting in Diagon Alley and telling him how she _wasn't_ going out with Dean Thomas. He remembered Sirius' house, and Ginny telling him the anger wasn't his fault, that it didn't make him evil. He remembered Quidditch in the sunshine, he remembered Hagrid's hut, Helena's Nest, dancing with words in the Room of Requirements... and felt alive again. Then he tore his face away from the pillow, and fiercely rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, until the sweat and grime that covered it had driven out that soft fragrance. How dare he? he asked himself, eyes boring into the wall. How could he use her memory to blot out the pain? Her memory? To use her like this when she was so wretched... he bit his lip savagely. No, it wasn't right. He couldn't bear it. It was worse than the suffering. He bowed his head.

"I'm sorry..." Harry whispered. Below, he heard the flush of the lavatory, and a chill crept down his spine, remembering Fred and George, and their mockery of Percy in his school days.

Please no, please let her not see it.

The badge was still there, he had seen it only last week, fixed to the back of the door with an unbreakable Sticking Charm that would have made Mrs Black proud, an old joke from years ago. It had once said 'Head Boy'. It said something less complimentary and somewhat anatomical now, thanks to the twins' misuse of their considerable talent for Charms... but Ginny would remember who had charmed it, and would remember who it had belonged to. He got to his feet, somewhat surprised to find they'd bear him, and watched the door, waiting.

Why can't it all just... just go away?

She opened the door, silently, and walked back in. She hadn't seen it. At least, if she had, the damned thing hadn't registered with her. He couldn't feel relief. There was so little left of Ginny there.

Mechanically, she sat down on the edge of the bed. She started to comb through her hair with her fingers. He sat beside her, moved to put an arm around her shoulders, and stopped, awkwardly.

Whose comfort? He saw the confusion in her face and reached for her- but the moment was wrong. She shrank back again, her eyes roaming over the room, bewildered. The moment was wrong. He let his arm fall to his side.

He wanted to apologise to her- for what? For loving her when she needed her brother's love? For being alive when he was not? For upsetting her by starting to hug her then pulling back- when there was nothing left in the world that could upset her any more than she was already? What use was an apology? What use anything he could do, since he couldn't stop her brother dying? He looked at her face- and she felt his eyes on hers and turned to him. He reached out a hand again, took her hand in his, and closed his eyes. Her forehead fell forward against his own, the heat of it startling him. He listened to her breathe.

* * *

Every moment had seemed a weariness, but now the day grew dark. Harry and Ginny spoke again- haltingly, of past times, of a long ago summer yesterday at the Burrow. She found it in herself to cry again, and he held her, and tried to call her back from the abyss.

In the late evening, Neville came up the stairs, and saw them, Ginny slumped against Harry's arm. Wordlessly, he went around the other three beds, taking a pair of pyjamas from each, for himself, Dean, and Seamus, and, exchanging one glance with Harry, left the room.

Ginny looked up.

"I'm... I'm ruining everything," she muttered, distractedly. "I should go back to my own room, it's silly turning everyone out just for one person, ridiculous..." Her eyes widened though, and she clung to the bedpost for support.

"They don't mind," Harry told her softly, then doubt struck him. "Unless you want to go back- to be with your friends--"

"No!" She shook her head vehemently. "Not back there... I can't have them all around me, telling me how sorry they are, all that... not from them, Hermione maybe, but they'll all be with her, all of them, so kind, so..." she gave a desperate grimace. "They don't know," she added, in a haunted tone.

"All right," Harry told her. He motioned for her to look away, and sat down heavily on his own bed, starting to change into his pyjamas. He managed to find a clean pair in his trunk and threw them over her shoulder on to Ron's bed. "They're a bit big for you," he explained uselessly, buttoning his pyjama shirt and sitting down on his bed again, his back to her to allow her to change in turn, "But they're clean- and they'll be a better fit than anything Ron's got."

He sat in silence for a moment. Ginny seemed- well, to be truthful he was concerned now by her wellbeing as much as he had been by her suffering earlier. She seemed to have, gradually, as the last flow of tears had abated, stitched a thin skin across the wound. She'd spoken with him, even joked in a faint, sad manner- but seemed hollow, empty.

"Harry?" he started.

"All right to turn round?" he asked.

"What?" she sounded confused. "Oh... no, not yet, just a minute. Harry," she went on. "Tell me."

A shiver went down his backbone. The words had been spoken so lightly that she couldn't mean... but she had to mean it.

"Tell you?"

"Tell me what happened." She sounded placid, drained, but something seemed to tickle at the back of her words, a need which felt... infected, scarred. Harry flinched. "Please."

"Not... not tonight, Ginny," he bowed his head, and searched in his belongings. Blast it, where had Ron dropped the thing after last night... He broke off, remembering his old friend, and realised with a start just how much of Ginny's suffering another- so many others in her family- had suffered this day. There, he spotted the thing and lifted it up, setting it beside him on the bedclothes. The Pensieve. He tried to find something to say.

"Tomorrow- or later... I'm sorry... but I just can't." He touched the wand to his forehead, dreading to see again something of last night's horror. "I have to..." he swallowed. "I've got to clear my mind." He had no choice. After last night, he had to use the pensieve- had to establish some defence against the Dark Lord. Besides... how could he tell her the whole story? How could he tell her how Percy had burned? He wanted to go to her, to hold her... but how could he do that if he couldn't even tell her the truth? He started to speak, but Ginny's voice, still the same calm, dead tone, stopped him.

"I... I understand, Harry. Not tonight... but soon, please."

"Thank you," he sighed with relief, and began to focus his mind on the small bowl, feeding his thoughts and memories into his wand, threading them, weaving them, draining away the colour and the passion, and pouring it all into the pensieve. Finally, he set it down beside his bed, and, hearing no sound from Ginny, looked round. She had drawn the covers up over herself and, face turned towards him, had sunk into a light sleep. Harry's heart ached, seeing her lying there, so... empty, so devoid of the life and verve he'd always seen in her. She looked... she looked like he'd only seen her once before, lying more than half dead in the Chamber of Secrets. He sighed quietly, not wanting to wake her to more pain, and turned over, staring at the wall until sleep claimed him- and so it was that he missed Ginny's eyes snap open, missed the terrible hungry look she cast at him, and then at the pensieve below his bed. Harry slept.

* * *

He was wakened by the scream. He twisted upward, fighting with the blankets and seeing himself back in the Ministry of Magic... but he was in his room at Hogwarts, and there was light in the room... but the light was not wand-light or oil-lamp-light, and a terrible voice hissed,

"This is for Harry!" The voice screamed again, a piercing shriek, and the mottled glow that illuminated the ceiling in rippling silver shook in sympathy. Harry fought his way upright. Voldemort... but there was no pain in his scar, there was no pain, but terror... and he turned.

"GINNY!" She knelt on her bed, head twisting this way and that, eyes fixed on the pensieve in her hands, its liquids boiling and bubbling, their luminescence bleaching her skin silver-white, casting strange patterns across her features.

"Minister!" she croaked in shock, and then a terrible smile flitted across her face. Harry kicked himself free of the bed, seizing his wand, dashing over to her- and stopped. She'd taken the pensieve- and he felt anger in him at that, anger even at her that his own thoughts would be sorted through in that way- and a small part of his mind that remembered Snape's rage asked if Dumbledore, too, had felt anger when Harry had stolen his thoughts. He reached out a hand. She was... in the pensieve, now. He remembered falling forward. Her body was here, but her mind...

"Percy Ignatius Weasley," she hissed, in a strange, sing-song tone. "I remember your family **well**, young man..."

Her mind was elsewhere. He reached for the pensieve again- but what would happen if he tore it away from her now?

"I just... don't ... know..." he moaned.

"Yes... especially your dear sister..." Ginny's features twisted in terror as the memory of Voldemort's words- and their terrible meaning, echoed through her. "I once begged a service of her. The least of things."

There was only one other way, one chance Harry knew, the one way Dumbledore had drawn him out of the memories. He turned to look into the bowl, and drew back.

But... I'll be there again, I'll see... I'll feel his mind again... no... I can't leave her... I can't go in there... she wanted this memory from me so badly, let her live it... NO! No, I love her, I won't let that...

Ginny was still speaking, sobbing the words, her eyes locked in terror on the nightmare only she could see.

"A life she had already grown weary of. She rejected me, Weasley, fought me, willed young Harry to destroy me..."

I can't leave her alone in the dark.

Harry gathered his will, and pitched his mind forward into the bowl.

* * *

He staggered, stumbling into the room, and catching hold of something that loomed above him to stop his fall.

Then the thing moved, and at the same time his scar exploded with agony- but muted, second hand, as the cloaked figure he had caught hold of flung one arm out to the side, hurling Percy Weasley across the room. The boy caught hold of his desk, staggering but keeping his balance, and beside him Harry saw Ginny, her eyes like two dark holes in space, desperately trying to take hold of her brother, her hands sliding off him, finding no purchase on the past already decided.

"Your family owes me a human life, Weasley." Voldemort said, in a gleeful tone.

Harry screamed, struggling to blot out the words.

"That debt, I claim now." Voldemort's gaze shifted to the wooden desk under Percy's hand, and his wand flicked through the air. He called out the first curse, that had crippled the boy.

"Naturam invigorus tordue envahnis!"

For a moment, Percy's eyes flickered in confusion- then started with pain. His arm twisted, trying to pull his hand back- but the wood was rippling under him, greening with life, small roots and branches pushing their way up from the grain- and where Percy's hand was suddenly pinned to it, small movements surged and tore beneath his skin.

Ginny- her hand on Percy's arm, drew back, her mouth working in a silent shriek. Harry ran to her, trying not to look at Voldemort's face, knowing the sight of the unholy pleasure he'd felt in it- felt in himself- would burn out his sanity.

"Ginny, we've got to come away, now," he tried to grab her arm, but she shook him off, white-faced and wild-haired, the lips drawn back from her teeth like some feral monster, as Percy begged for his life, and Voldemort prowled round him, enjoying Ginny's brother's agonies. Harry saw the Dark Lord step back, knowing what was to come, and frantically wrenched at Ginny, fighting to turn her away.

"Incendio!" Voldemort cried out, his high cold voice ringing with his glee, and Percy screamed.

"Oh!" Ginny cried out, and charged at Voldemort, kicking and punching the body that did not yield a fraction.

"It's over Ginny," Harry sobbed. "It's already happened... come away!"

As he had known it would, the voice came, thin and ghostly, seeming more to ripple in his skull than to travel through the air. His voice.

_"No! Please don't... he's not going to hurt you, he's got nothing to do with this... he's her brother!"_

The voice choked on itself.

"Ah, Harry, but how he betrayed us..." Voldemort fixed his eyes on Percy as he burned, twisting and screaming in agony. "And how strong the debt his sister owes still. Would you prefer that I take it from her? I know you would not," he hissed, enraptured by the flame.

Harry struggled with Ginny, fighting her, trying to tear her away from the sight of her brother's terrible funeral pyre- and she shook him free, throwing him back against the inexorable malice of the memory of the Dark Lord. He staggered, his head went back- and for a moment a dead-white face gleamed in the periphery of his vision, before he forced his face down, and looked full into Percy's agonised eyes.

"Harry!" Percy had twisted his head forward, his face blackened but still recognisable, madness growing in his eyes as he felt what was being done to him, but still within some glint of Percy Weasley remained. He let loose another scream, and fought it down, struggling to keep his eyes gazing forward, at what Harry knew had to be some glimpse of Harry's own mind, seen through the connection with Voldemort last night, because Percy couldn't be seeing him now, it was impossible, impossible...

"You have to... know..." Percy's face was aflame now, and his voice a rasping crack, "They... didn't want you... know... but... you can't... can't kill him, Harry!" He screamed again, and fell, a burning huddle on the smoking floorboards. Desperately, Percy flung his head back up, and looked at Harry with sightless eyes. "He's already dead!" Then he twisted back, the agony burning him away, and only screams came from him.

_"Please!"_

The voice of last night's memory of Harry echoed through the room, like a powerless wraith.

_"Please... don't do it, please, he was my friend once, he's just a..."_

"You wish to see mercy, Potter?" Voldemort gloated.

_"Please..."_

"Then see the true measure of compassion. Thy will be done." The Dark Lord added, his rapture of malice singing in the dark, and raised his wand to Percy for the last time.

"NO!" Ginny screamed, and threw herself between Percy and the curse. Harry stared at her in terror.

"Avada Kedavra."

"GINNY!" Forget what was possible, if Percy had really spoken to him, now, then perhaps all the rules were broken, all was awry, all shattered forever, Harry wrenched himself forward, throwing his arms around her, his momentum carrying them away to one side of the blazing heap as the Killing Curse flashed through the air.

He would never know what would have happened- whether the curse would have struck her, or whether it would have simply passed through her, gone on to kill Percy as was its destiny- it was something he would never know, nor wish to. He saw, as she screamed in rage and kicked at him, rolling him over and over, saw the burning man, already more than half dead, writhe suddenly in the green light, then lie still, the blaze consuming the body which remained.

"Ginny..." he held her tight in the dark, enduring the blows until they ceased. "Ginny... you can't do it... it's not possible..." he told her, but a doubt remained in his heart. Slowly, he lifted her to her feet. Around them, the scene of carnage... dithered- not stationary, but uncertain, directionless, the memory at an end. He shivered, still avoiding the gaze of that tyrant and killer. Voldemort had had his fill of blood for tonight.

"Come away, Gin," he told her, holding her nearly limp body in his hands. "Come away. There's nothing more for anyone here."

The dark figure turned, and the agony in Harry's brain redoubled in force, as the memory of Voldemort looked him full in the face, and smiled its cruel smile, the red eyes fixed on the boy.

"There is no light I cannot shadow, Harry," the voice rang in his mind, as the eyes focused impossibly on him. "No light."

* * *

Harry flung his hand up in front of his face, a terrible cry of agony bursting from his throat, and the pensieve was knocked from their arms and fell to the floor.

Ginny stared at her hands, and now there was nothing at all left behind her eyes but sorrow and fear. She shook her head, crawling backwards along the bed.

Harry turned to her, unable to silence himself.

"Why did you look..." he spoke in a hoarse whisper. "Why did you look...?"

* * *

Thanks to everyone for the reviews: 

**Tronishere:** Ginny has got a certain amount of creative skill, yes. On the other hand, given her fairly impulsive nature, and the fact that she's related to Fred and George... does anyone actually want her mucking about with reality? As for making Voldemort into a 'bad memory'... interesting choice of phrase, and she certainly has an incentive to try.

**AriKitten**: Glad you liked 19... I hope I've not spoiled it with this one, which is mostly meant to be the flipside of 18's 'nothing happens, but all's well' ambience. I wasn't sure about 18, and I'm not sure about 20, but I am fond of the ending. Oh, and Tommy's body is alive and well.

**James**: How did Dumbledore and co know about Percy and Fudge? When a horde of Death Eaters break into the Ministry of Magic at night, massacre everyone in sight, and kill the Minister and his secretary, the cleaners tend to notice first thing next morning. Since Dumbledore's head of the Wizengamot again, I'm assuming that letting him know was the first order of somebody's business. If it was Umbridge, you can bet that she enjoyed giving that message.

**Jack-A-Roe**: Harry and the rest of the gang will need to learn about magic. It's still impossible to block the Unforgivables, after all, not to mention various other things that would give them a vital edge against Voldemort. It's also going to be important to know what it is, other than trying to kill Harry, Professor Milner's real job at the university was actually about. You're right about Harry's maturity as well- the fact that he was, pre-Ginny, having to resort to such... unsubtle methods of controlling himself doesn't say very complimentary things about him. The boy still has a lot of growing up to do.

* * *


	21. Hermione Alone

****

Chapter Twenty-One: Hermione Alone

Hermione knocked on the door to the room Harry and Ginny were sharing, and- hearing what sounded like an affirmative grunt, stepped inside. Her best friend and his girlfriend sat, stiff and still, on Harry's bed, each dressed in dark Muggle clothing. She was shocked to see their faces- quite plainly, neither had slept much the previous night, and Ginny seemed... like a sleepwalker.

"It's time to go down to the coach," she told Harry, and he nodded, turning to Ginny, laying one hand across her wrist.

"You go on ahead," he told her. "I need a word with Hermione." Ginny looked her understanding to him, repeated his gesture to her, then released his wrist and stood up.

"I'll see you both downstairs," she told them flatly, and went on. Hermione looked confused.

"Shouldn't you... keep with her?" she asked him. Harry's head lowered.

"I'm no help, Hermione. What's the point trying?"

"The point?" She seized his arms. "The point is she's your girlfriend, your... your friend, even more so. Of course nothing's going to work right now," she glared at him. "Do you think I could say anything for Ron yesterday? There's no right answer, you've not let her down, but you've just got to stay with her, Harry..." she blinked rapidly. "I know it's going to be hard- for all of us... but... I don't think there's any easy way. Think how you felt after Sirius died," she winced at the pain in his face. "You've not failed her just because nothing you say works. I don't think there is any right thing to say right now..." she trailed off, cursing herself. After all, what did she even know about it? Hermione grit her teeth.

"You can't hurt her, Harry- not really... if you love her, anything that comes from the heart will be right in any way that really matters..." He pulled away from her, a closed look coming across his face.

"You don't get it," Harry told her bitterly. "I made a mistake last night, a bad one."

Hermione's eyes widened briefly, and she looked down at the beds.

Surely Harry wouldn't be so stupid and... he might think he was trying to comfort her... no, not then, not them, not him...

Harry read her look, and made a coughing, half-laugh.

"No," he confirmed, and she heaved a sigh of relief. "Nothing like that. Worse." He grimaced. "At least that would only have made her hate me." He started for the door, then stopped. "'Mione," he began, hesitantly. "What do you think... I mean, really? Ginny told me once I should share the fears as well as the fighting." He turned to look at her, and asked the question.

"Can I stop him?"

* * *

Twenty minutes later, she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, and watched the coach- still, to her eyes, pulled by invisible horses, thank God- move out of side on its journey to the railway. A heavy hand fell on her shoulder.

"Young Harry'll look after 'er, Hermione," Hagrid told her, and blew his nose with an enormous handkerchief. Then he turned his face away. "But it's 'ard... cruel 'ard." He shook his shaggy head. Hermione reached her other hand up to her right shoulder, and tried to pat Hagrid's fingers softly.

Then she twisted her head round, and smiled up at him.

"And we'll look after the whole lot of them," she told him.

Hagrid nodded, then looked up across the lake. He pulled a small pink umbrella from one cavernous pocket of his leather overcoat, and shouted. Down by the Convalescence Pond, two first years were throwing stones at the Giant Squid. Hermione watched him charge down to them, waving his umbrella furiously, and smiled again in spite of herself. Then her face set with a firm resolve.

"I've got work to do."

Hermione marched back into the castle, feeling a certain dread as she moved through eerily silent corridors. Ordinarily the building would be quiet on a Sunday afternoon of course, unless it was raining- students might be out in the grounds, or the more studious and less organised desperately battling their way through the contents of the library, but this was a different quiet. A few hardy souls- some of her fellow Gryffindors, perhaps she thought meaning it as a gesture of support for Harry and his friends, had gone down to the lakeside, supposedly to take care of some of the younger students- although the incident she had just observed suggested they weren't fulfilling that duty with over-enthusiastic vigilance, but many more had remained in their Common Rooms- filing down in almost silence for breakfast, then returning just as quietly. Even if the attack had not had quite so personal a meaning for many of them- Susan Bones had waited in terrified silence until a message from the Head of Magical Law Enforcement had confirmed her safety, and one or two other students had been hurried away along with Ron yesterday morning, still, the assault on the Ministry had left everyone reeling.

She found herself hoping, praying, that this was not the future for Hogwarts, and that fear strengthened her resolve. To see Ron, and Harry, and Ginny, so destroyed in this fashion enraged her- but Hermione knew only too well that she lacked the hot-headed temperament of her three friends. She'd felt almost... ashamed of that, yesterday. She had known Percy- liked him, and perhaps wanted him to be something more than he seemed to be, largely because she recognised something of the truth in his siblings' occasional teasing claim that she was well set up to be another Percy. Hermione was realist enough to know that the young man had been foolish many times- but still, she hoped there had been more to him than his youngest brother had sometimes been willing to admit to.

She had felt anger too. When Harry had accused Umbridge, she had been quite well acquainted with the rage that she'd seen boil up behind his eyes- but also knew that there was no proof at all. Furthermore, she was by no means as convinced as her friend that the woman was in league with Voldemort. She remembered what Harry had told her of the dream, in those scant few moments before his departure. He might angrily dismiss Voldemort's taunts to Fudge as being just attempts to make the man squirm- and to make Harry feel guilt... but it didn't satisfy the girl. In a strange way, she expected the Dark Lord to be more... honest? She mentally crossed the word out. No... subtle. And the most subtle lie is always the truth. For Voldemort to try to use Umbridge, yes... but for the two of them to join forces... it just... didn't... fit.

She climbed a flight of stairs, hands behind her head attempting to bind her wild hair back into a pony tail, and scowling ferociously. No... something was dancing behind all of it, and it infuriated her that something that felt so intuitively obvious should so totally elude her.

The girl marched straight up to the door she wanted, and knocked hard on it three times.

"Come!"

She pushed the door open and went in. Professor McGonagall's office was a mess- the normally tidy bookshelves disarranged, papers loose over the woman's desk, and McGonagall herself, tartan dressing gown wrapped over her daytime clothes to ward off the chill of the Autumn which was now descending upon them, sat askew in her chair, peering down at a scroll of parchment, and rubbing her forehead with one hand. She looked up, wearily.

"Miss Granger?" the Professor paused. "Have Mr Potter and Miss Weasley left?" Hermione nodded. McGonagall sat up straighter, and put the scroll to one side. "Then I shall write to Grimmauld Place," the teacher nodded to herself, trying to reimpose some order on her world. "I doubt Arthur or Molly will be able to meet them at the station personally, but perhaps Remus... or Nymphadora..."

"Professor..." Hermione broke in. McGonagall looked at her in surprise, but her habitual look of disapproval faded. She seemed to realise that she had been running along, her normally tight and elegant discourse ragged and fraying.

"I'm sorry, Miss Granger, what was it you wanted?" she asked.

Hermione steeled herself.

"Permission for the Restricted Section of the library," she told the Deputy Headmistress.

"I see," McGonagall reached for a permission slip- she was, she had made implicitly clear on numerous occasions, well aware that Harry and his friends were in the frequent habit of flouting the restrictions when they felt it necessary, and so assumed that, for Hermione to ask, she wanted the books for some academic reason. Hermione being the student she was, Professor McGonagall was inclined to grant the permission without hesitation... but she caught herself, once again having to remind herself of the procedures and rules that she'd followed for half a lifetime.

"For what purpose, Miss Granger?" the teacher asked, quill hovering over the relevant section of the slip.

Hermione swallowed.

"Order business," she told McGonagall, and saw the irritation in her teacher's eyes. Professor McGonagall put the quill down.

"Miss Granger, I have to point out to you that the Order of the Phoenix is not a school organisation, and as such I should not grant any permission for you to use restricted material to use it." the Professor hesitated, and a nerve twitched anxiously in her cheek. She was clearly uncomfortable with the idea of telling Hermione to break the rules- but equally uncertain of how to proceed otherwise. "I'm afraid you will have to find what you want to know in some other way," she went on weakly, adding, while polishing her little square-frame spectacles. "You have seemed to manage in the past."

"This is different, Professor," Hermione's hands interlaced nervously. "I need to research something- something complicated, and I can't... well, sorry to speak so plainly, Professor, but I can't do the work the justice it needs if I'm having to hide round corners from Madam Pince and Filch all the time," she blurted out. A faint colour- perhaps anger, perhaps slight amusement, rose in McGonagall's cheeks, and she inclined her head slightly.

"I do see the problem, Miss Granger," she hesitated. "What is the nature of your work? I'm sure- if it is within my purview, I can find some academic project which will furnish you with ample reason to have access to the Restricted Section."

Hermione hesitated. This, more than anything so far, was going to be difficult.

"Curse scars," she said, quietly. "Harry's scar," she elaborated. Professor McGonagall sighed.

"I understood that Mr Potter was making progress in Occlumency..." she hesitated, and her face blanched. "Although, after the night before last..." she looked meaningfully at Hermione. "Professor Dumbledore did attempt..."

"The Pensieve he gave Harry," the student nodded. "That and the Occlumency have helped a bit, Professor... but it can only block out the dreams. When they meet- even just their minds, and it was worse at the Department of Mysteries, Harry can't take it."

The teacher sighed.

"Professor Dumbledore is doing everything he can to keep You-Know-Who from reaching Harry," she sighed, with a tone that made clear she knew the inadequacy of her answer.

Hermione bit her lip. She didn't tell McGonagall her real fear, that the situation could find itself reversed.

"What about the Prophecy?" she asked instead.

Professor McGonagall looked frightened- and then annoyed.

"Frankly, Miss Granger, I am uncertain of its validity," she began, but stopped, extremely surprised when Hermione cut her off.

"You and me both, Professor," the bushy-haired girl told her teacher grimly, "Personally, I wouldn't have Professor Trelawney speak my weight," McGonagall's lips pursed at the implied slur on a teacher- but failed to entirely prevent the remark eliciting a tiny nod of agreement, "But it's true now," Hermione added, "Because You-Know-Who believes it."

McGonagall's eyes closed, briefly, in pain. Hermione went on,

"Just like Harry said- he's going to go after him, he's going to try and kill him. Professor Dumbledore said that he thought Harry was the only one who could stop Voldemort-" this time she forgot McGonagall's reaction to the name, and hurried onward, "But he didn't say why he wouldn't be able to stop him himself." Hermione scowled. "Harry believes him. We still want to know why," she added, hurriedly, "But he believes it too- not that it was all pre-ordained or something, but that he's the only one who can stop You-Know-Who."

Professor McGonagall looked resigned.

"If only Mr Potter would realise..." she began, then stopped.

"He won't," Hermione told her, annoyed in her turn. "Harry's probably one of the most powerful wizards on the planet- and even though he hates to admit it, deep down I think he knows it... and he certainly knows Voldemort's coming for him." She paused. "He also knows, while Voldemort's got that... grip on his mind, he won't stand a chance." Again, she edited the truth. What Harry might, intellectually, be well aware of, was a different matter to what Hermione was terrified her friend might be driven to do.

McGonagall looked at Hermione, her eyes troubled, and the student went on.

"Please... it might be his only chance."

"You realise a great deal has already been done," the Professor hesitated. "And that there is really no precedent... at the risk of sounding facile, Miss Granger, no one has ever walked around alive with the scar of the Killing Curse on their brow before."

"Yes," Hermione rejoined, "And it's only for the last two years that Harry's had to deal with Voldemort's mind still out there, awake and at war," she told McGonagall. "Any of the research you did before that... has got to change now, anyway. Please, Professor. I probably know him... about second or third best in the world, and I promised him. We all promised him," her thoughts flicked back to the DA meeting, and to the ritual so many days before. "We work together. If I can do this, I've got to do it."

Professor McGonagall took a deep breath, and murmured something in her throat.

"I'm sorry?" Hermione asked, hesitantly. The woman reiterated herself.

"In loco parentis, Miss Granger. I suppose, after a fashion, I have made a promise to Mr Potter as well." She lifted her quill once again, and paused, looking directly over her spectacles at Hermione's eyes. "But be careful, Miss Granger," she added. "There is something about that scar which frightens me."

* * *

For Hermione, the business of 'settling in the library' tended to use the word 'settling' in the same sense as had once been used by the pioneers of Australia or North America.

First, there were the military outposts. That consisted of showing her permission slip to Madam Pince, who regarded it with grave distrust for several moments, until Hermione was tempted to present her with a small vampire bat next time, just to see if the librarian looked at that with any greater disapproval or apprehension than she did the terrifying and disgusting idea that a student- a _student_, and an unsterilised and undisinfected student at that, should be allowed to sully her books with _reading_.

Secondly, those military operations needed a certain amount of reinforcement. This consisted of keeping the slip ready to hand, so that when Mr Filch loomed up from behind shelves at her, which seemed to happen with irritating regularity, she could wave it under his nose before he had the chance to finish- or, preferably, begin, his usual threatening discourse. She at one point contemplated showing the slip to Mrs Norris, who stopped off on her rounds to curl up on top of one book Hermione rather desperately needed to read next, and glare balefully. Instead, she had settled for the form of pre-emptive defence against red-eyed tabbies of a sour disposition that went by the code-name of "Crookshanks". The big, rangy ginger animal had conceived a deep dislike for the caretaker's cat, and subsequently sat on the edge of the heavy oak table in the Restricted Section, eloquently and politely explaining the reason for this antipathy in words of no syllables, whenever Mrs Norris approached.

Logistics and supply lines were the next strand in the support structure of the occupying forces. Hermione had long ago acquired an almost permanent permission from Professor Flitwick that allowed her permission to bring drinks into the library, a concession gained when she delighted him in her third year by demonstrating a near-flawless fifth-year level 'anti-stain' charm on a bottle of pumpkin juice, which had allowed her to upend the bottle over her robes, and caused the normally sticky and deletrious liquid to simply slide off the surface like water off a dragon's back, only without even wetting it. On the condition that she performed this charm on the flask of hot coffee, the three bottles of water, and the large mug of grapefruit juice that she tended to bring into the library for lengthy research projects, she was in turn allowed to do just that.

Finally, since Miss Granger was of the opinion that the sun kept wholly unreliable and inadequate hours for the general workload of a sixth-year student, let alone one on a mission, the last item aside from the relatively ordinary matters of pen and paper- she used a ballpoint and Muggle notepad, not being in the mood to humour one of the more picturesquely irritating, in her view, idiosyncrasies of wizards- was a set of three magically enhanced nightlights she'd caught a couple of second years juggling with in the corridors last year. With all these items in place, and a little red woollen hat bearing the letters S.P.E.W. to act as moral support and give Crookshanks something to catch and play with, she had indeed settled into the library, and taken down her first book on Curse Scars- D.M. Markelson's "Misfired Magic, Scars and Disfigurations: How to Cope with them, and What Not to Do."

Unfortunately, since she'd just settled quite nicely in her chair, and was ready to bring her mind to bear on the problem, the book was worse than useless, and, she later discovered, was only in the Restricted Section because someone had thrown it over a shelf. Hermione prepared herself for a long day.

* * *

Some few hours later, she marched crossly out of the library and into the nearest girls' lavatory. Hermione had grown up in a house filled with academic texts- true, most of them on various dental problems, which was both a narrower and a more rigorously documented field than wizardry, most of the academic texts of which seemed to be written by- well, by people like Aloysius Milner, she realised, rather than people with an appreciation of rigorous and objective scientific methodology- which might account for a lot- and she knew that there was a tendency for books to cover the same ground- a subject had to be introduced, and ground rules applied, naturally, and then again, different writers would try to document the same facts in different ways. None the less, the fact remained that she had spent four hours solidly reading, only to come up with what, when distilled in her notes, amounted to "Some curses can leave scars." Hermione leant her head against the mirror and seethed.

"Idiots..." she hissed. Almost all the books she'd found seemed to be in the Restricted Section not because of curse scars or any sensitive or dangerous information about them included therein, but simply because they were dangerous in other ways, and just happened to mention curse scars in an otherwise irrelevant footnote. Notes on the Avada Kedavra curse made no mention of scars- understandably, she supposed, since practically every book in the section was over sixteen years old, so, as she'd been warned by McGonagall, there was no precedent.

She calmed herself. It was silly to expect results so early on- it was just the images in her mind, thinking of Ron, down in London, wondering how he was coping with it, seeing Harry's face, pale and hopeless, or Ginny, so... hollow. She had thrown herself into this project, and now, once the initial impetus was fading, she was finding it hard to distract herself.

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"After all," she told the mirror, "I have got a reputation to keep up."

* * *

Later, in an even fouler mood, leaving Crookshanks guarding her place in her current book with firm instructions to dismember anyone who disturbed it, she marched back into the lavatory, and refilled her bottles of water at the drinking fountain.

It was ten o'clock in the evening, and she'd made only one significant step.

She had, with some difficulty, been able to divide curse scars into two types- which was more than the alleged academic wizarding community had ever bothered to do. These amounted to what she had labelled 'faux curse scars', which was to say physical scars caused by injury resulting from the curse- scars on the skin from a cutting curse, for instance, or burns from a fire hex, which were largely irrelevant to her study, and the 'vrai scars', namely marks and cicatrices on the skin resulting from contact with an overflow of magical energy. Opinion seemed to be divided- not to say, fractured- as to precisely why and how this happened, but, uselessly, the one thing all the books agreed on was that scars were passive- they might occasionally ache, of course, and could give sensitive twinges if similar magic was practised nearby, but all the text books seemed to agree that the idea that a scar could somehow 'link' caster and target was preposterous.

"Well," Hermione told her reflection, "So are wizards."

She thought back. She had a scar, of course- a pale white zigzag line across her chest that shot horizontally over just below her collar bone, then down from left to right crossing at her breastbone, before reversing and cutting back across her navel. She'd received that in the Department of Mysteries, from a man named Dolohov. Madam Pomfrey had told her it was a Cardiarrestae- a curse meant to shock the heart out of rhythm and stop it. It was a rather unpleasant spell, all in all, and she'd been lucky- her heart was young and strong, and seemed to have shaken off the attack with no lasting effects. In her case, though, the line- she unbuttoned the top of her shirt now and gently traced her finger across the thin sheen on her skin, feeling the different, slightly over-smooth texture of the scar tissue- was already fading- the Healer had told her that it would probably have become almost invisible within a couple of years- and seemed to have no particular sensitivity. That took her straight back to the core of the problem-

No one knows how a scar from a Killing Curse might behave.

but also seemed to offer another piece of evidence. The scar was there, but the curse had, at least largely, failed.

Well, that was another line of enquiry.

Good. Well, there's no point driving yourself into the ground. The brain can only do so much, Herm. Sleep now, research tomorrow. Maybe I'll be able to ask Milner about it in Defence tomorrow morning. Anyway, I'd best go to bed now,

she thought, as she headed back to the library and took out another book, this time on failed curses, and the consequences of them.

* * *

By the afternoon of Tuesday, 1st October, Hermione had reached a state of mild to intermediate fury. She had homework to do- classes did not stop, even for students on vital missions, and she had earlier that day come rather closer than she would ever like to simply forgetting to go to a lesson, when she'd turned the page on to a fascinating- but ultimately useless- discourse on the results of accidental magic contamination of skin cells, a bare ten minutes before her Advanced Charms class was due to begin. Fortunately, she was afforded a study period last thing on Tuesday afternoon, which gave her some opportunity to put in a little solid reading- although she knew she would soon have to make her way to the Room of Requirements to prepare for the night's meeting of the Defence Association. That had been one thing Harry's letter of the morning had been insistent about- the DA should carry on. Otherwise, it had been a series of flat statements of fact- they'd arrived in London, been to see Amelia Bones at the Ministry's temporary headquarters in St. Mungos, and returned to Grimmauld Place. He hadn't elaborated, hadn't even mentioned Ron or Ginny by name, let alone told her anything about their state of mind- which, to Hermione, suggested nothing good.

She slumped in her chair, yawned loudly, and looked blankly at a gap in the shelves opposite her.

There seemed to be nothing useful- all the information on curse scars of any kind agreed that they could be amusing, occasionally painful, sometimes disfiguring... sometimes useful aids to memory... but not powerful. There was nothing to suggest a connection of the power that Voldemort seemed to have forged with Harry- and that, as always, brought her back to the Avada Kedavra. It was something about the power of that curse... it had to be.

The trouble was that the library at Hogwarts was even more inadequate where the Killing Curse was concerned than it was in the matter of scars. In this case, most of the books on the subject seemed to amount to saying "Oh, scary, you don't want to read about this." She'd only even been able to get a definition of the thing in the most general terms, which once she'd applied Occam's razor to it had, in turn, ultimately boiled down to "The Killing Curse kills people. Somehow."

Exasperated, Hermione let her head sink into her hands. She'd seen her mother and father like this many times- she remembered sitting in their warm living room, one or the other of them wrestling with some problem while the other played the piano or the violin. They'd always seemed to have the answers then- of course, the memory cheats, and she was quite aware that her parents were only human. Still, she wondered what they would say.

"Hermione Jane Granger," her father would squint sideways at her, and scratch his receding hairline, before putting an arm round her on the settee, "Why," he'd smile at her, "Are you asking me about magic? Now, teeth, teeth I can deal with," he'd probably bare his teeth and click them together at that, just because he knew it used to make her laugh. "Go on, ask your mother," he'd say then, and push her to her feet, before leaning back over the settee. "Susan, oh Susan," he'd call.

Her mother would, of course, look up from her book, and peer over her glasses.

"Hermione has a question for you, dear," Hermione's father would grin, and Hermione would ask her mother. Mrs Granger would sigh.

"Ben put you up to this, didn't he," she'd say, and shoot a dark look at the other dentist, before turning her attention back to her daughter. "Oh, Janey," she'd remark, using the pet version of her middle name that anyone at Hogwarts would only dare to use if they a) were Ginny, and had the power to get away with it, or b) particularly wanted to have Ron hex them into another galaxy, "This really isn't our field, but what should you always do if the secondary texts are wrong, or unhelpful?" She'd look at her daughter expectantly, and then her husband would break in,

"Get it from the horse's mouth- or the patient's," he'd chuckle. "Better the horse, if you've got the choice, they've usually got better breath."

"Ben..." Hermione's mother would warn, then go on, "Go as far back as you can. Secondary texts are useful, more balanced, and do a lot of editing- but if they aren't telling you what you needed to know, then maybe it got lost along the way. Look at the original. That's where you'll find the truth about the Avada Kedavra."

Hermione got to her feet. Admittedly, she rather doubted her mother would have said the last sentence, but it didn't matter. She walked quickly out of the Restricted Section, pausing to smile- less frostily now than in the past- to Luna, and exchange a deadly look with Draco Malfoy, who hurriedly sought to demonstrate that he was just passing through and in no way annoying Luna in any way whatsoever, whilst at the same time trying to simultaneously maintain his air of detached smugness- which resulted in him sneering, pulling the door open to stride out, then shrink out of the way to try to give the impression that he was holding it open for Luna, who stepped through, closing the door behind her. Malfoy then drew himself up, still glaring at Hermione- and came very close to strutting straight into the closed door.

Shaking her head, Hermione went over to the large catalogue- one massive, leather bound book sitting on a low round table in the middle of the library, arranged so that Madam Pince could clearly see it from her desk. She thumbed through the catalogue, muttering under her breath.

"Avada Kedavra, Avada Kedavra, Avada Kedavra..." until a slight pain in her chest stopped her. She wasn't actually casting the spell, of course... but perhaps directing so much thought towards it whilst saying the words was unwise. She stopped, and the pain eased. Several other keen-eared students around the library started to breathe again, but Hermione was rather too wrapped up in her research to notice. There... she ran a finger down the page. That was the name from the Dark Arts classes, under the subject heading of "Killing Curse, information (extended and apocryphal)" Author, Albert Ranbrot, Title, "Thee Tru Streng off Maygk" Apparently enthusiasm for reasonable spelling was not an essential requirement for being a Dark Wizard. She noted the 'R' designation, and, noting down the Dewey classification, hurried back to the Restricted Section, quickly scanning the numbers on each book's spine. There, there, there... a horrible sinking feeling came into her heart, and she stopped, regarding the inevitable gap in the bookshelves she'd noticed earlier.

"Typical." She put her hand into the gap. It had been quite a big book, in black leather, to judge from the stains on the shelf- and the space where it had sat felt oddly damp and cold. A magical text, then, and very probably a dangerous one. Grimly, Hermione headed for the librarian's desk.

"Madam Pince?" she asked, and the pinched, elderly figure looked up at her, her neck fighting against the curve of her spine.

"Yes, Miss Granger..." the librarian whispered, in a sibiliant hiss.

"There's a book I'm looking for..." Hermione showed Madam Pince her permission slip again. "Um... this one," she showed the title and author to the librarian, who nodded.

"Ah yes, The True Strength of Magic... now, let me see, let me see..." Pince muttered to herself. "That one's out on loan, I do believe... why, I think it may even be overdue... let me check, Miss Granger..." she turned her body towards the door leading to her inner office, and drew her wand. Hermione peered through the door. Several wooden drawers of files seemed to be floating around in the air, two of them apparently engaged in a lazy, almost slow motion aerial dogfight.

"You there," Madam Pince hissed, "Stop that at once, and come here." She gestured imperiously with her wand, and, dragging its metaphorical feet, one of the drawers floated out into the library and settled on the librarian's desk. "Now, just let me check through the Brown catalogue... yes... yes... no..." Her thin fingers flicked through hundreds of little card wallets, each labelled with the name of a student, each holding the tickets of all the books they had out on loan. "Ah, here we are," Madam Pince whispered with quiet triumph, quite near to the end of the alphabet. Then her face darkened. "Oh, dear me... this reader seems to have left the school without returning the book..." she held up the ticket crossly, pulling the reader's wallet out of the file and setting it down on the desk. She squinted at the name and other information on the wallet. "Yes... yes, his head of House was Professor Abbruch... good heavens, he died twenty years ago," She thought, and looked again at the ticket. "Outrageous behaviour," Pince sniffed. "The book was due back half a century ago." She scowled. "I am sorry, Miss Granger... now, let me see, Professor Abbruch was the head of Slytherin back then... perhaps you could ask Professor Snape if he has kept contact details for..." she looked at the wallet again, "T.M. Riddle?"

Hermione ground her teeth.

"I'm not the only one who'd like to know that," she remarked. "Thank you, Madam Pince," she sighed. "I'll try." She went back to her table in the Restricted Section, and sat down heavily, leaving the librarian to silently fume over the theft from her collection. After a moment, Hermione looked up, and quietly addressed the empty space.

"All right," she said. "All right." If Tom Riddle had thought the book worth stealing all those years ago, then it must have said something useful to him. If that was the case, then it was almost impossible that somewhere in the library, there wasn't a book somewhere where someone or other had written _something_ useful _about_ it.

"I'll match the wits of Hermione Granger against the _famous_ Lord Voldemort, any day of the week."

* * *

Thanks to all those who've been reviewing the story so far- I won't say the bleakness is over, but there's going to be a bit more light mixed in with the dark from now on.

**AriKitten**- You're right to question Harry's blinkered approach. D.Umbridge is up to _something_, but Harry and Hermione are going to have to agree to differ on the truth of the situation for quite a while yet.On the other hand, it's not unknown for crows of a feather to flock together... or, at least, to fly in the same direction. Technically, I'm not sure with Chapter Twenty- if I'm looking at what you were looking at, it's not that it's got posted with a piece of Chapter Nineteen, it's just that the (rewritten) extracts from Nineteen somehow still ended up in all italics dream sequence, so they look cut 'n'pasted.For some reason, document manager gets very possessive about italics with me... Anyhow, I've rejigged the formatting a bit now, theoretically taken the italicisation out, so it should look less like a dream, and hopefully the flow will work better now. As for music, I went for Danse Macabre and Ride of the Valkyries while writing those two, but yes, Phantom feeds the mood nicely. Votes out of 10 for how utterly _stupid_ Harry was, leaving the thing lying around in her view... Mr Potter votes 11 and a half out of ten, as you may have seen here. :-)

**David305**- Glad you're enjoying the ride- the chapters leading up to nineteen were deliberately cosy and 'fluffy'. Somewhere between the two is what I'm aiming for as a norm... and Harry will get to call Voldemort 'Little Tommy' again. Just not for a while.

**missy mee**- Well, it's a nasty day unless you're Voldemort. Voldy is probably down the pub somewhere buying everyone a round of drinks and having a happy little gloat. :-)


	22. Out Into The Night

**Chapter Twenty-two:** "Out into the Night"

Peeves the Poltergeist was minding his own business, bobbing along upside down on the ceiling when something like a tornado swept by underneath, sending him spinning round like a top and, uncontrollably, up through three floors. With a soft 'pop', he emerged in the Prefects' bathroom, and turned himself right-way up. Rather to his disappointment, since after an experience like that, he would have appreciated the chance to make somebody scream, the place was empty. At least- so he thought. As he turned to dive through the floor and pursue the bush-haired wench that had had the cheek to discombobulate him so, a slightly throaty, whiny, catchy voice seemed to bubble up the drain at him.

"Hello, aren't you Peeves the Poltergeist? Have you come to talk to me?" Peeves straightened his bow tie and felt whatever the spirit world's equivalent of 'oh no...' was.

"Hello, Myrtle."

* * *

Meanwhile, Hermione hurled herself round two corners, narrowly avoided a collision with Professor Sprout and a wheelbarrow full of cabbages- whose purpose in the corridor she didn't have time to guess at, and practically flung herself head first into the Room of Requirements. Ten minutes late. 

"Good to see you, Hermione," Neville helped her to her feet, grinning. She cleared her head, and looked round.

"Sorry, I was... library..." she trailed off. The room was fuller than she'd seen it before. Almost four fifths of the Sixth and Seventh Years had turned up, along with probably two thirds of the Fifth Form, and more than a few scattered faces from the eligible younger students. That, in itself, was a surprise. She'd been half expecting the meeting- since almost everyone was aware that Harry would not be attending- to be a washout. Even more surprising to Hermione though, who had been privately less than convinced by Harry's preparation of the new DA uniforms at the start of term, was to see, without exception, every student present wearing one, from Zacharias Smith to Clare Jacques to Gregory Goyle- whose did not fit very well, but the sheer determined look on his face somewhat over-ruled the ridiculousness of his appearance- and Blaise Zabini- a new arrival herself.

Neville looked seriously at her then, and Luna stepped out of the crowd.

"Harry can rely on our support," she told Hermione. "All of us."

"Every one?" Hermione looked around- perhaps especially at Goyle and Zabini, both of whom returned her look proudly.

"Yeah, every one," the tomboyish Slytherin remarked, tilting her head challengingly at Hermione.

Hermione swallowed, and walked, as Harry did, to the centre of the room. The crowd parted around her, then joined again behind. She gulped.

"You... all know what happened two days ago," she said, nervously, and tried to stand a little taller. "I was going to ask you tonight... anyone here, if it made any difference to how you felt about things." She hesitated, then tried to blank out the sheer number of faces she was speaking to. She looked towards Neville and Luna. "People die in wars. The people on the right side don't always win," she questioned the value of saying it, especially now, but the honesty in her would not let it go unsaid.

"We know that," Hermione heard Luna say. "Hermione, we all know we might not survive- but, for Harry, for Ronald, for all of us... we made that choice in London at the start of summer, didn't we? When everyone joined us here, they made that choice."

"Luna's right," Neville added. "Don't shame them by assuming they don't know what they're getting in to."

"We know what's happening," Seamus piped up. "We all do. I'd rather die than let You-Know-Who take over- and I think it's the same for everyone else here."

There was a rumble of agreement. Hermione looked at the floor for a moment, then raised her head again.

"Thank you," she said. "We'd better make a start then."

* * *

The meeting had gone well. Hermione had rather doubted her ability to carry a class in the way that Harry, whatever his protestations, managed so easily, given her own doubts about her lack of charisma. However, she had found that the galvanised spirit that ran through the group last night had made teaching considerably easier, and, she was slightly embarrassed to admit, the presence of so many new members had simplified matters a little, allowing her to quite legitimately repeat sections from her and Harry's previous lesson plans. 

She had divided the class into groups of four on sliding scales of ability, had them practice, learn, and, in the case of the more advanced students, teach certain useful hexes and curses- concentrating for once on offensive magic rather than defensive technique, while she circulated. All in all, she was pleased with her success, which was probably more than could be said for her feelings regarding the scar project, which still seemed more than a little trapped, even now, the best part of a week later. She had spent hours standing in front of the mirror, studying her own scar. They were both what she had called 'vrai' scars- the results of a discharge of magical energy, rather than simple physical damage from the effects of a spell... but why so different? She walked along the corridor, head down, arms folded supporting a stack of books she planned to return to the library.

True, her researches into the Killing Curse were rather patchy and incomplete, and true, what little she had learned indicated that the Avada consumed vast amounts of the caster's magical reserve at a stroke... but still, why should Voldemort's curse, given that it had not only failed, but rebounded so viciously upon the Dark wizard, have caused such a connection between them? As her parents would quite categorically have told her, it was useless to try to fight toothache without looking for the source of the pain. All the measures that Harry and others had tried so far... Her train of thought was broken by someone humming nearby, and she fervently willed them to shut up... all of those measures had been palliative, the magical equivalent of painkillers. The only reliable way she could see to prevent the Dark Lord taking advantage of the connection though, was to understand precisely what it was.

That, of course, was just what she could not do, she reflected with some asperity, just as she collided with a tall robed figure, who turned to face her with a soft grunt of surprise as she sat down abruptly on the floor, her books spreading out around her.

"Professor Dumbledore," she scrambled to her feet, accepting his helping hand. "I'm sorry, sir, I wasn't looking... um..." she came to a halt. Dumbledore looked somehow older than when she'd last seen him, before the attack- no, longer, before the death of Armando Dippet and the lighthouse. Then, the morning after the assault on the Ministry, she'd briefly glimpsed him waiting in a carriage outside the school, before he'd taken Ron off to London. Then Harry had followed them.

"Are Ron and Harry back?" she asked- uncertain of what to hope for. If Harry was back, then she might have the opportunity to put a couple of theories to the test, but on the other hand, she would then be faced with a time limit. Hermione had seen it in his eyes when he'd spoken to her that morning before he'd leftfor London. Sooner or later, he planned to go after Voldemort. She did not know what to feel when the Professor shook his head.

"Not yet, Miss Granger." The old man stooped, and helped her to pick up her books. "Harry will return tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, when he has concluded certain arrangements in London." Dumbledore paused. Hermione looked up at him, suddenly afraid.

"And Ron and Ginny?" she asked. "They... they will _be_ coming back to Hogwarts, won't they?"

The Professor's eyes glittered at her, and he motioned for her to continue along the corridor.

"Eventually, yes, Miss Granger," he spoke softly. "But some wounds take a longer time than others to heal. Some scars never truly fade."

Her eyes shot to meet his as he said that, and- almost by way of answer, he lowered his eyes to briefly look once more over her selection of texts. Then, a thoughtful look on his face, he turned to leave.

* * *

That night, Hermione and Neville invited Luna to join them in the Gryffindor Common Room, and sat by one window, watching a small thunderstorm rage about the Astronomy tower. 

"The thing is," Hermione sighed, "I really needed to get at that book of Ranbrot's." She frowned. "I've found out just enough to tell me that it might help... but not enough to be any use without actually looking at the book." She was beginning to see the written word- or what passed for the word, in the spidery writing most of the books employed- across her eyes now. There had, at least, been some progress. She'd located a passage in an obscure text on the subject of a transfer of power- which implied that, in at least two recorded instances, a wizard had 'learned' a spell by being the victim of it. Clearly, that wasn't the case through the Avada Kedavra curse, but if you exercised a little flexibility of thinking, and tried to think, in that case, of the spell that had been learned as a sort of mental scar, and added to that the knowledge that Voldemort's attack on Harry had also left him as a Parselmouth, then it gave her her first solid lead.

Still, as she explained to the other two, that wasn't enough. Voldemort hadn't- presumably- cursed Harry in Parseltongue, and even so, it wouldn't explain the connection, unless there was something unique about the Avada that none of the other books touched upon. She broke off, noting with irritation a slightly glazed expression on Neville's face. On Luna, it was difficult to tell. Besides, Neville had now tilted his head sideways, listening, and was no longer looking so much bored, as annoyed. Deeply annoyed.

A group of fourth and fifth year Gryffindors, who had been animatedly discussing the approaching Quidditch game against Ravenclaw-

...Although how they imagine anyone's going to play the dratted game with three of the team away I have no idea...

had paused in their discussion of tactics, to look at Luna in a most unfriendly way, and make a number of muttered comments about Ravenclaw spies. Neville stood up, and looked hard at them.

"She's my friend," he said, loudly, and, coincidentally, performed a practice sweep of his new wand through the air. A thunderclap sounded nearby. The group of Quidditch fans decided to continue the discussion upstairs in one of the dormitories. Neville sat down, looking satisfied.

"Bunch of idiots," he commented. "Mind you, I'd have probably turned myself into a newt if I'd tried anything."

"Nonsense, Neville," Hermione retorted crossly. "The only problem you've got is confidence." She sighed. The truth was, the boy's skills had come on impressively under Harry's tuition, and, notwithstanding a lasting clumsiness, he was at least the equal of Ron, and maybe even Hermione, unless inspiration struck her. "You just have to be more sure of yourself."

"I'm not certain of that," Neville observed, in a deadpan tone. Hermione sighed again.

Luna broke in, thanking Neville. The boy looked slightly embarrassed.

"I don't like people getting shut out," he said, with uncharacteristic bluntness. "Wizards, Muggles, Squibs... there's too much of us getting marked up and put in little boxes and told that's where we've got to stay." He pulled a face.

Luna smiled, and blinked at him.

"That's exactly what father says," she remarked. Then she turned to Hermione. "When did you want me to steal a copy of this book from Uncle Aloysius?" she asked, suddenly. Hermione's jaw dropped. Luna beamed at her.

"People don't usually invite me to join them unless they need something," the Ravenclaw girl told her sanguinely. "I don't know if he has a copy of the book, but if he has, I'll ask him if I can borrow it."

"Um... thanks." Hermione shifted uneasily. She wasn't entirely comfortable with Professor Milner knowing too much about their plans. She sighed, resigning herself to the situation. From what Harry had told them all a couple of weeks ago, Luna's first loyalty was bound to be to Milner. She knew that she was clutching at straws- the book had clearly been very old, and might even have been the only copy in existence. "If only we knew more about what happened that night..." she scowled.

"Well," Neville shrugged. "We know You-Know-Who thought this prophecy Harry's talked about meant that Harry was going to kill him."

"Er, yes." Hermione nodded, and prayed for Luna not to ask for any sort of account of the words of the prophecy at this point, not in Neville's hearing.

"So he turned up, did Harry's parents in... and Harry's mum died to protect him," the boy finished, paling slightly. "And that's when it all went wrong for him."

"And Voldemort- sorry, Neville, you will have to learn to get used to it, Voldemorttried to curse Harry," Hermione took up the account,"Which gave him the scar... and lost most of his powers, and..."

"And ran out into the night, a phantom barely alive, seen by no one." Luna finished, dreamily. She added, after a moment, "Except the sightings by a dozen people at the Las Vegas casinos, of course."

Hermione ignored the last addendum. Something occurred to her.

"Well, he must have been seen by someone," she remarked. "Presumably, whoever wrote the account."

"It was Bellatrix Lestrange," Neville said, in a queer, catching sort of voice. "The Death Eaters all felt it through the Mark," he went on. "Or that's what she said when they used Veritaserum on her when they questioned her." He looked bleak. "You-Know-Who went to where the Potters were on his own- I suppose he didn't want anyone else knowing Harry might be more powerful than him, or something. The first they knew about it was when they got these flashes from his mind."

"Residual telepathic traces," Luna murmured. "Like those Harry experiences."

Hermione's eyes widened.

"As if the scar was..." she looked quickly round the room and lowered her voices, "A sort of Dark Mark?" She shook her head. It didn't make sense. It was another lead, another way of looking at the problem, but it was not enough. She remembered another fragment of the prophecy.

And he shall Mark him as an equal.

Except that those who took the Dark Mark were regarded as anything but Voldemort's equals. Besides, she was forgetting herself. The prophecy was hardly a reliable guide to events.

There was something else, though, something else that seemed to tug at her mind.

"So she saw... what, Voldemort kill Harry's parents? Try to kill Harry?" she wondered. Neville shifted in his seat.

"I don't know. My gran and I didn't talk about it much... it was just one time when I was small- I'd got hold of my dad's wand, and I was angry- really angry. I wanted to find..." he broke off, looking at Hermione and Luna, then, quietly, very quietly, so that his voice would not carry across the rest of the common room, went on. "I wanted to find out who'd hurt my mum and dad and make them really pay for it." His eyes shone a little wetly. Hermione, tactfully, looked at something else. Soon, Neville went on. "I asked my gran if they'd really suffered, when the Ministry caught them. I hoped they had," he said, sounding slightly ashamed. "I hoped they'd burned them alive." He paused to consider. "She told me what happened- what she'd managed to hear about what happened when they were questioned, which wasn't much- but she did tell me that that was where that bit about what happened to You-Know-Who- that story that he'd run away, he hadn't been blasted to bits, came from. I think, ifBellatrix hadn't said that, almosteveryone would have thought he was dead. As it is, most people thought she was just making it up to scare everyone anyway, that the serum wasn't strong enough."

"Except it was true," Luna said, with supreme confidence. "Bellatrix Lestrange's mind saw Voldemort run out into the night... then he went to the casinos, then he travelled to the dark forests in central Europe, where Professor Quirrell met him before Harry started at Hogwarts."

"Yes, never mind the casinos for the moment, Luna," Hermione remarked, a little testily. She scowled furiously. Yet again, something... didn't... fit. It was insufferable. She could hear the answer whispering in her ear, but could not catch the words it said. She growled, burying her face in her hands.

"Erm, Hermione, are you all right?" Neville asked, concerned.

"Fine, Neville, fine," she sighed. "It's just the universe. Luna, can you get me that book?"

"I will look," Luna said sincerely.

* * *

Later that night, Hermione lay in her bed, tossing and turning. It was infuriating. She was so blasted close! Thoughts kept coming to her, half formed, floating on a dream. Voldemort, running out into the night. The scar, like a Dark Mark that wasn't a Dark Mark. A mark. A connection. A binding tie. 

Professor Quirrell- yes, who had he been? She'd heard Milner and others call the man a Death Eater, but she'd checked the records- Quirrell had never stood trial, there'd been no evidence of him being in any way involved with Voldemort's first rising. A lot of the evidence suggested the man had been totally innocent before he'd met Voldemort in the forests. Whether that was true or not was another matter, but Voldemort and Quirrell had apparently indicated to Harry at the end of their first year that Quirrell, even if he _had_ been sympathetic to the Dark Lord's will, had certainly not been an entirelywilling party to having Voldemort grafted on to his skull.

That had been the first time Harry had felt the pain, of course, her brain ran back to the topic that held it, when he'd set eyes on Quirrell's turban. That was understandable- if a bit extreme behaviour for a curse scar, Voldemort was certainly practising magic at that time, he practically _was_ pure magic at that time, sharing the Defence teacher's body, not having the vitality to maintain his own, and the stab of pain her friend had felt made sense. Hermione turned over again, sliding her hand underneath the pillow and pushing it up to her cheek, burying her face in it, and trying to ignore the snores of Lavender Brown in the next bed.

She tried closing her eyes, tried letting her mind wander- but it always insisted on wandering back to Harry's forehead. The young witch snarled at her brain.

Think about someone else. Anyone else. Ron.

She tried to remember how kissing Ron had felt, tried to visualise it from their time together- or trying to be together- at Grimmauld Place. It was no good. Either the face kept turning into Harry's, frequently at a hideously embarrassing point in the proceedings, or- worse, it remained as Ron's, but suddenly turned white as, in the midst of a kiss, she somehow managed to whisper that Percy was dead.

Viktor Krum?

Her mind suggested the notion, and was quickly squashed.

Gilderoy Lockhart?

Don't be revolting.

Hermione seethed crossly, and rolled on to her back, pushing back her blankets. The storm had made the night warm, and she lay there in her pyjamas, gazing out through the windows at the empty night.

Then it came. From somewhere to the side of her brain, the idea floated in front of her fully formed and beautiful in its terrible simplicity. For one horrifying moment, Hermione sat bolt upright in her bed, and drew one breath.

My God.

The movement was fatal. Somehow, as her brain moved itself into a position awake enough to handle ideas like 'sitting up', the framework of logic around the idea collapsed, bits of it- the vital bits, drifted away back into memory, concepts collapsed, conclusions she had drawn in her subconscious and barely noticed slipped out of her mind's vision before she had a hope of recording them.

She reached out with her mind, struggling to catch hold of the last few threads.

"He wasn't trying to..." she managed, and "He couldn't have..." but it was gone. Nothing remained. Nothing that made sense. Hermione turned herself face down once more, and fell finally into a fitful and disturbed sleep.

She slept until quite late on Saturday morning, dozing through the sounds of Parvati and Lavender dressing and giggling their way through discussions of Roger Davies and Seamus Finnegan- and their hope that Oliver Wood would be coming back to commentate on the next Quidditch match, waking only to prop herself up on one elbow and give the two a withering look- which they failed to notice. For not the first time in Hermione's life, although she doubted Ron would ever believe such a claim, she found herself dreading another day in the library.

Still, it had to be done. She sat up, pushed her feet into a pair of worn red slippers, paused, gave Crookshanks the sort of look that turned towers of stone to ash, removed the slippers, removed the tiny dead shrew from the left slipper and absently wrapped it in Lavender Brown's face flannel, and put on the right slipper in order to hop to the hand basin.

"What have I told you about killing rodents?" she sighed, in between brushing her teeth. "Ask... first... if... they're called Peter... then count toes." She paused, and retrieved her dressing gown from the floor where the ginger feline agent of chaos had pulled it from the hook, and, checking the pockets carefully, put it on. "And that doesn't allow you to finish off Peter Rabbit, either," she scolded, then picked the bandy-legged, tousle-furred creature up and gave him a hug and a kiss. Crookshanks looked askance at her, held himself rigid in her arms, and mooched away to explore strange new worlds under her bed. Hermione shook her head, and noticed her own hair in a mirror. Deciding that she had little right to call Crookshanks tousle-furred, she set off- still hopping- to the shower to wash her hair, concluding that at least now she had a shrew to bury somewhere in the gardens before continuing her research.

"Yes," she thought, as she stepped into the shower only to belatedly discover that some house-elf or other had accidentally managed to- by a feat of magic or mechanical idiocy that beggared the imagination- swap the settings of 'pleasantly warm' and 'resembles liquid nitrogen' on the shower's temperature gauge, "Hogwarts is such fun."

* * *

It was, unfortunately, early evening by the time Hermione finally made her way out to the gardens. Unfortunately chiefly because she had remembered to put the small shrew in her coat pocket before setting out from Gryffindor Tower, but had forgotten this by the time she passed the library. At half past six in the evening, after another day's research, it was only a sense of resignation and mild fatalism that had prevented her from receiving a lifelong ban from the library for screaming out loud when, searching for a fresh pen, she had dug a hand into her coat pocket and encountered a cold and stiff miniature corpse. As it was, Hermione Jane Granger just whimpered slightly, and wondered what else the world planned to serve up for her today. 

The programme for the day had changed, prompted by Luna's observations about telepathy. She had given up on her fourth attempt to pick a grain of sense out of C.D. Ricardo's "The Avada Kedavra, The Hook of the Soul", which tended to read more like blank verse inspired by the curse than scientific extrapolation therefrom, and instead plunged into the subject of thought-transference. It was an area she'd always been a little surprised to find so undeveloped in the wizarding world in her early years at Hogwarts, until she'd come upon a book which had given a reasonable argument against it- pointing out that the mind of a wizard and his magic were more or less one and the same thing in many respects, and that any attempt to directly link one wizard's magic with another tended to be difficult, unstable, and prone to rather damaging side-effects. In effect, a wizard might be able to cast a spell to make two Muggles telepathic, but thought-transference between wizards, on anything other than a strictly limited and intermittent level, was both dangerous for the minds involved, and staggeringly difficult to achieve.

She'd refreshed her memory of that theory, and then, although already beginning to tire, gone on to examine some of the other scenarios laid out in the book.

Hermione was, she mused, as she made her way down the path to the spot she had chosen, at least progressing well along a process of elimination. Every turn she took presented evidence as to why one theory or another she formulated about the scar was impossible. Eventually, she reflected wryly, there would only be one surviving explanation left.

"When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains..." she told herself grimly. The day's annoyance quota had finally been met by Luna, disturbing a particularly promising train of thought to sadly inform her that Professor Milner did not have a copy of Ranbrot's text, but that she would write to her father to ask him to put an appeal out to his readers. Having managed to persuade Luna that this would be a bad idea- in any case, she rather doubted that Voldemort read the Quibbler, and, even if he did, was most unlikely to consider the theft of a library book a particularly serious item on any hypothetical charge sheet he might one day face, Hermione had then recommenced her line of thought, found that it ended in a knot, accidentally broken her pen in her aggravation, and reached into her pocket for a replacement, only to find the former shrew she had placed there earlier.

"When you eliminate the feasible," Hermione muttered to herself, "whatever remains, however ridiculous, is probably in the Quibbler."

She picked her way a little to the side of the driveway, and knelt next to the roots of an old holly tree. Then, taking a tablespoon from her other pocket, she dug a shallow grave, and, removing Lavender's face flannel from her first pocket- despite a certain temptation that had _Weasley_ written all over it, she doubted Miss Brown would particularly want it given back, if she were ever to know, and laid the shrew, still wrapped in its shroud, in the grave.

"Sorry," she said, feeling a little foolish.

A very light footfall sounded behind her, and she reached for her wand.

"It's just me," said Harry Potter.

"Oh..." Hermione flushed with relief, then horror, trying quickly to get to her feet. She felt sick. Of all the stupid, mindless, tasteless things to be doing... She tried to hide the hole from Harry with her body as she stood up. "Have you just got back?" she asked, trying to see his face in the shadows. It moved in what she recognised as a nod.

"Neville said you'd gone out this way," he remarked. "You probably shouldn't be out alone, Hermione. It's beginning to get dark."

Hermione winced, feeling an absurd pang of guilt at leaving the grave open. She hesitated. Harry stopped.

"You'd better finish it," he said, flatly. She bit her lip, and knelt down again, spooning soil over the little creature as quickly as she could. "That's the way," Harry remarked as she finished. "You'd better learn the habit." Then he started walking again.

Hermione froze, feeling as if she'd just been slapped in the face. After all that he had gone through, no, more, all that that poor family had gone through... she could understand him making light of something to mask his own pain, but to joke about it after Ron and Ginny's brother... suddenly furiously angry, the frustrations of nearly a week's work boiling over, she marched after him.

"How dare you," she hissed at him. "How dare you?" Harry stopped. They were near the Entrance Hall now, and he looked up at the school, his face pale and unreadable in its lights.

"Funny," he remarked bitterly. "That's just what Ginny said."

* * *

Thank you, **AriKitten** and **missy mee** for the reviews- 

**missy mee**: When writing #21, I did start to visualise Voldemort being put on trial: "... blah, blah, murder of the Potters, blah, attempted domination of the world, blah, unpaid library fines... hang him!" Poor Tommy. No one takes him seriously.

**AriKitten:** Hermione's probably the most determined of the trio- and once she gets an idea between her teeth, she's like a terrier. I've enjoyed writing from her P.O.V. for a bit- her sense of humour's just that bit drier than Harry and Ginny's penchant for the absurd. I hope I've done her (and JKR's original character) the justice of not making her just a comedy bookworm- she's very, very, good at it.


	23. Rage

_From an emotional point of view, this is probably Harry's lowest ebb. On the downside, that makes this a pretty depressing chapter, unless you happen to enjoy ferret-facedcretinsbeing bounced off hard surfaces. On the upside, well,this being the lowest ebbprobably bodes well for him, personally and psychiatrically speaking, for the future. No promises for the rest of the universe, however :) _

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-three:** Rage

"Here is the Gryffindor team," Wood's commentary sounded strangely hollow as Harry led the small group out on to the pitch, shielding their eyes against the strong sunshine of the mid October day, "... with several changes to the winning line-up they presented against Hufflepuff in their last match, a tribute to the skills of their Captain, Ron Weasley," Wood echoed across the stands with a false heartiness. Harry looked miserably round at the rest of his current team, and started the long march across the pitch towards the already waiting Ravenclaw side. "Gryffindor is currently fielding Seamus Finnegan, Clare Jacques, and Colin Creevey as Chasers," Wood told the crowd, who remained silent. They all knew the reason for the change in line up. "While Brian Coplesbury takes over for this match as Keeper, replacing the absent team captain," the commentary continued- and this time Harry felt sure he heard a jeer of derision from somewhere in the Slytherin stands. "Current acting team Captain Harry Potter," this time he was certain of it, a sneering comment floating down from high above, the words muffled, but the tone only too clear.

"I swear I'll take a Beater's bat to that ferret faced creep one of these days," he heard Colin seethe with uncharacteristic vehemence.

"... completes his team with Beaters Andrew Kirke and Jack Sloper." The two boys grimaced. They, perhaps more than the rest of the team, were determined to make a good game of it, especially since they'd come in for some allegedly 'constructive' criticism from a somewhat inebriated Oliver Wood in the common room the night after the last game.

As Oliver turned his attention to describing the Ravenclaw team, Harry's group came to a halt opposite them. Cho Chang, now indisputed mistress of all she surveyed in the Ravenclaw team since Roger Davies' NEWTs, returned his look coolly.

Harry turned his attention back to his own team.

"We'll be using Ron's game plan," he said, flatly. "Defensive strategy," he added, as he stepped forward to shake Cho's hand. The Ravenclaw Seeker gave him an odd, sympathetic look. Harry deliberately failed to acknowledge it.

He wasn't able to avoid Cho indefinitely though. Once the game had begun, and the two Seekers had risen up into the sky, Harry was faced with a choice of stopping to talk with her, or zigzagging ridiculously about through the air.

"Harry..." she began, then looked uncomfortable. "Erm... how are you?" she attempted.

Harry looked blankly at her.

"Fine, Cho, how are you?" he responded harshly. Cho's eyes flashed with anger, and she started to move away- but stopped.

"Look, Harry, I do know how you feel, in case you've forgotten," she snapped. "Remember Cedric?" A jolt went through him. He tried to give her an apologetic glance, but it came out wrongly.

"How's Michael?" he settled for asking, more genuinely- but Cho seemed to take offence at the question, and her face darkened.

"He's fine, Harry," she told him. "Harry, what went wrong between us..."

"Was months ago," Harry remarked. "Cho," he said in a level tone, "I've got lots of reasons for not wanting to talk to you... but that's not one of them."

"Harry, I'm just trying to help!" she told him, holding out a hand- and wavering slightly on her broom as she did so.

"I just thought..." she hesitated. "Well, you know how badly messed up I was about Cedric- still am, to be honest," she scowled, then tried to continue. "I just wanted to say..."

"What?" Harry grated. "It gets better? Time heals all wounds?" He found himself sneering. "I don't think Molly Weasley's just thinking "Oh well, one down, still six left, never mind,"" he bared his teeth in a momentary snarl. "Do you?" He accelerated his broom down towards the pitch, no longer caring if he looked ridiculous, or, for that matter, about watching for the dratted Snitch.

"I'm the Captain," he told himself, "I ought to get involved with the team a bit more." That was better. He'd managed to justify himself and insult Cho's Captaincy in the same thought.

He flew low over the other players, watched silently as Seamus scored a goal for Gryffindor, held up a hand in a frozen wave as the other boy raised his own towards Harry in a half-salute, ignored the crowd's cheering, and continued to circle. He made out Hermione in the Gryffindor stands, and offered her a surly nod. She'd- eventually- forgiven him for his rather venomous comment about funerals the night of his return, but not until she'd tried to sit him down and extract the whole tale of his trip to London. He'd managed to defer that without offending her further, at least. Still, things were somewhat strained between them- largely, Harry had to admit, because of his less than enthusiastic response to the bushy-haired girl's eternal ramblings on the subject of her current pet project. After two hours of having his scar poked and prodded, he'd stormed off to the Quidditch pitch for some flying practice, to clear his head... and promptly been mobbed by what was left of the Gryffindor team, wanting to know whether Ron and Ginny would be back in time for their next match, and if not, what he thought they should do.

Harry lifted his broom high again, and as soon as he was far enough from the spectators- and Cho, who had thankfully seemed to regard one attempt at kindness to be sufficient, he let his body curl forward until his forehead rested against the gently vibrating cool wood of his Firebolt.

"Oh... Sirius, what would you do?" he wondered, and a rare smile found its way to his lips. "Probably something really silly," he mused.

Like being as unpleasant as you can to people who haven't done anything to you but try to help? What had Hermione done wrong? Or Cho?

"Existed in my bloody way," Harry snapped at his inner voice, but couldn't help feeling ashamed of himself.

Below him, Ravenclaw equalised the score. Harry saw a small knot of his Chasers converge below, and knew that, in all probability, he ought to go down and join them. He stayed where he was. Where Ginny should have been. They would have been trying to persuade Ron to let her take a turn as Seeker in this match. Harry's fingers tightened around his broom.

He couldn't blame Gin. After all he'd done- the sheer damned stupidity of leaving the Pensieve out. 'Why did you look?' he'd asked, like a cretin. Of course she'd look! Who wouldn't? Then... in London...

"Well, what the hell was I meant to do," he wondered aloud. "Let her snap her bloody wand in half?" Furiously, he pulled off his glasses- new ones bought with Muggle money, changed in Gringotts, at an Opticians' in London, and wiped them. They weren't particularly good glasses, and the lenses, although oval rather than the irritating circular ones the Dursleys had grudgingly furnished him with, seemed to have become infected with a dust-attracting charm at Grimmauld Place. Tonks had wondered why he hadn't simply bought a proper pair of wizarding spectacles in Diagon Alley. He'd muttered something about wanting to keep one foot in the real world, rather than admit that the thought simply hadn't occurred to him until he'd spent the money.

Below, Gryffindor had scored again.

"Oh, come on, Harry. Ron would want me to take some part in it." He flew down to congratulate Clare and Colin on their teamwork, in a voice whose heartiness was as feigned as Oliver's own.

Harry gave a heavy sigh as Hermione and Neville gave him encouraging waves from the stands. He couldn't bring himself to ignore them any more. He half-raised a hand in a wave of return- then let it drop. They'd seen it, anyway. He'd done his part. Once more, Ravenclaw equalised somewhere. Harry closed his eyes and drifted onward, wanting to tell Oliver Wood, the crowd, everyone... to... just... be... quiet.

He leant forward on his broom, feeling the gentle rocking motion lull him, and jerked upright sharply.

Focus, Potter.

A fresh pang caught at him with that thought, and he spun the broom round wildly, heading back into the game, just as a shower of silver sparks sprayed across in front of him from the stands. Rearing back, twisting his Firebolt away from the release of magical energy, Harry heard an ugly laugh from the stands.

"Just keeping you awake, Potter," Malfoy called, as Harry struggled to keep his balance. Harry's eyes blazed at him. In the distance, he heard Oliver Wood announce that Ravenclaw had scored again. Slowly, deliberately, he moved his broom in towards the Slytherin stand. Malfoy exchanged a look of amusement with several of the other Slytherins, and grinned broadly. "What's the matter, trouble sleeping?" Draco smirked. "Missing having that little redhead slut around to keep the bed warm?" The blood roared in Harry's veins. Draco was practically dancing with glee as Harry's broom drew closer. Somewhere behind him, players were shouting.

Just behind Malfoy, Blaise Zabini clapped her hand to her forehead.

"Well, see you in the next life then, Malfoy," she snapped, and stalked away from him. Still, Harry moved closer, his teeth bared. Malfoy was beginning- truth be told, to look a little worried by now, but, gesturing to Crabbe and Goyle- the latter of whom at least looked more than slightly uncomfortable, while Crabbe had the grace to look scared, to move closer to him, licked his lips. "Still, you've still got Granger," Draco needled. "Doesn't matter how much mud gets in your blood, after all, does it, Potter?"

Harry was hovering above the stands, barely twelve feet from Malfoy, and grinding his teeth. Draco smirked up at him.

"What's the matter, Potter?" Malfoy added slyly, "I'm not putting you off your game at all, am I?"

"No." Harry's voice came out in a gravelly tone. "Don't you worry about it Draco. We'll discuss it another time. Another time, soon," he threw over his shoulder, spinning round and flying out away from the stand as fast as he could.

"And, at last, Potter returns to the game," he heard Wood commentate in tones of unmistakable disgust. "After daydreaming his way through what could very easily have been a Ravenclaw victory, if it weren't for the sterling efforts of Gryffindor Beaters Kirke and Sloper, who deflected Ravenclaw Seeker Chang away from a sighting of the Golden Snitch just long enough for..." Harry had no time to wonder what had happened- a hand landed on the side of his broom, jerking him to the side, and Seamus' face glared furiously into his.

"Just... save it... till after the game," he snarled at Harry. "Do you think this is how Ron'd want you playing? He'd want us to win this. Cho was about two feet away from the Snitch then, and where were you? Picking fights with that tosser?" He gestured back towards Malfoy, letting go of Harry's broom. "I'm not letting you throw this away," Seamus added, before repeating, "What do you think Ron and Ginny would say?"

Harry's guttural snarl failed to carry across the air to Seamus, as he peeled off away from the errant Seeker and started to descend towards his other team mates, but his reply certainly reached the boy.

"I doubt either of them could care less at the moment," Harry snapped, lifting his broom and flying high once more.

He drew in a long breath. This was pointless. Both his anger and the game.

"He could kill all of us... all of us... and here I am playing Quidditch..." Harry sneered at himself. He forced his mind back to the game. There wasn't anything else to do. Nothing. The anger achieved nothing.

"Well what can I do?" he whispered to himself. "I can't fight him... I can't... I..."

Instinct took over, and Harry found himself leaning into a dive, Cho hard on his tail. A tiny glint of gold flashed across the pitch, zigzagged between the two Ravenclaw Beaters, and rose up into the air. Harry squinted. The Snitch was less easy to see against the sky than the ground, and above him he could hear Cho correcting her descent, trying to get above the ball. Harry saw the grass coming up to meet him at the end of his near vertical dive. For a second, the temptation to just close his eyes, to let the earth and the speed of the broom decide the matter for him loomed large in his mind, and then, cursing vividly, he kicked himself forward off the Firebolt. Screams came from the crowd as Harry pivoted forward, holding on by one hand, hanging for an infinitesimal instant from his broom by one hand, and saw Cho's horrified face, far above, swing into his field of view. Then, his other hand shot up, grasped the broom handle further along its length and swung it round 180 degrees.

When all's said and done, a broom is just an unspecialised, large, clumsy, single purpose wand.

He focused his mind on the broom, forcing more power through it than the Firebolt had ever known, braking his descent in half a second, reversing his fall and accelerating the Firebolt back upwards before another full second had elapsed. Cho was staring at him, stunned- for about two and a half seconds more, he suspected. Well, that was good. Two seconds later he closed the distance between them, and then passed her. The Snitch twisted in the air, trying to scuttle out of his reach. Harry bared his teeth at it in a savage grin, and snatched the golden ball out of the air.

A ragged cheer went up from the crowd, as Oliver, once again shaken, declared the second Gryffindor victory of the term. Harry held the Snitch up for a moment, and then leant forward over his broom again. Below, the spectators were beginning to throng the pitch. He considered it- saw the rest of the team descending to meet them, and instead steered his broomstick towards the dressing rooms.

Seamus can do the honours. He'll enjoy that.

* * *

"Good one, Potter," Oliver threw a small bottle in a low arc across the crowded common room from his place by the fire. "Now, for goodness sake, have a drink!"

"Watch it!" Neville shouted, diving for cover. Harry caught it- nearly fumbling the catch- which he didn't think was bad considering how little attention he'd been paying, and glanced at it.

"No thanks, Oliver," he put the Firewhisky down on the table, and turned to look back out of the window. It was hard, he had to admit, to remain as apart from everything as he'd expected to, not when he'd returned to the Tower to find the celebrations in full swing.

"I have to admit," Seamus slurred slightly, while attempting to put an arm round Lavender's shoulder, "You had me worried for a bit there, Captain..." he looked reprovingly at Lavender, whose shoulder had somehow missed his arm again. It wasn't that she had any apparent objection to being held by Seamus, Harry suspected- more that the young Chaser was having slight problems in persuading his eyes to explain to his arm where Lavender's neck was. Twice, he'd nearly knocked her flying across the room. Harry shrugged, in a non-committal sort of way.

"Oh, leave the boy alone," Clare and Jack approached, supporting each other in what appeared to be a platonic manner, although Jack's hands did appear to have certain creative ideas about the best place to hold her in order to keep them both upright. "He's just being modest," the girl slumped into the chair opposite him, leaving Jack to fall over unceremoniously. "Are you going to drink that?" she nodded towards where she thought the bottle of Firewhisky was. It wasn't. Harry picked it up, and picked his way past various inebriated students.

His Marauders' Map- hardly a secret any more, with the DA as open as it was nowadays, but still kept out at meetings just to make sure of spies- was pinned to the wall near the portrait hole, having been appropriated by Dean Thomas early in the 'festivities' an hour or so earlier, just so as to 'watch for cats', as Wood had put it, while breaking open the miniaturised crate of alcohol. Harry rather suspected that they were watching for Hermione as well, who had gone off to the library almost immediately after the game, only pausing to pass a couple of withering remarks on Harry's risk-taking behaviour.

"Ah... Potter," Oliver grinned. He was sitting by the fire, crutch in hand, recounting gleeful tales of past victories to Dean and Colin. "A toast to you." He smiled, a little blearily. "Although if you ever risked your neck like that when I'd been Captain... I'd probably have had kittens."

Harry looked at him blankly.

"Still..." Wood continued. "Great catch. Very well done. You know, I'm sure there's a place for you in the professional game..."

Harry looked at him blankly.

Oliver narrowed his eyes.

"All right, Harry..." he put a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "I know, I know you didn't want to play, I know Quidditch seems like a bad joke right now, with what happened to Percy... but like I hear Seamus tried to tell you out there... they'd want you to carry on, Harry, they'd want you to..."

"To 'what'?" Harry's eyes flashed. "To stagger about like a prat getting drunk as a July-kneazle?" He hexed the top off the bottle of Firewhisky. "To think it's funny to sneak the stuff into school and get a lot of kids drunk on it? Oh, great joke Ollie, really big of you."

"Lighten up, Harry," Dean told him. "We all need a bit of a break- we've got to wind down a bit, that's all."

"Fantastic." Harry glared. "Just fantastic. Remind me what we're bloody celebrating, would you?" He lifted the bottle to his lips. "Here's to Quidditch, and God bless all who sail in her."

A couple of minute later, he threw the bottle at a relatively empty corner of the room, stowed his wand in his pocket, and walked out through the portrait hole, pausing only to snatch his map down from the wall, glance at it, nod in satisfaction at something, and push it into the other pocket.

A silence profound as the darkness of space reigned. Then, like a supernova flaring into life and light, Clare spoke.

"Did he just..." she came to a halt.

"A _whole_ bottle...?" Seamus croaked.

"Sweet Merlin on a chocolate frog card," Oliver muttered. "I think I've had enough."

* * *

Footsteps echoed along a dark corridor. Four figures turned the corner at one end, the leading two arguing amongst themselves. 

"I'm telling you, rat-breath," the lead figure of Blaise Zabini snapped, pausing to take a torch from a wall bracket and ignite it, "Incendio! I'm telling you, Goyle and I managed to get in this Association of Potter's."

"Goyle?" Malfoy folded his arms and glanced back at his hulking bodyguard. "Be serious, Blaise. Goyle's too delicate for intelligence."

"Well, he wouldn't hang around you if he was that bright," she muttered. "Come of it, everyone in the Sixth knows you've been trying to find out what he's up to. What's up? Reporting to daddy?"

"Lay _off,_ Zabini," Malfoy growled. "Crabbe and Goyle wouldn't want to hit a girl- but that's assuming they've worked out you are one. Why I want to know what Potter's up to's my own business, all right?"

"Yeah, you and whoever it is you're always leaving two cups after." She paused, just before a turning, and leant smugly against the wall, tilting her head back to look slyly at him. "Come on, Draco," Blaise purred. "Keep up. You go into that little Prefect's Orifice... I do beg your pardon, Office, of yours, every night, two cups of tea. Who was it wasn't up to intelligence work?"

Malfoy's eyes flashed in the light of the torch.

"Have you got anything useful to say?" he rapped out, bristling.

"Yes, Draco dearest." Blaise handed the torch to him and put her hands behind her head. "Like I said, we've got in. One thing I'll tell you for free- you'll never get near the place. Potter's got that map of his on the wall, and he or Granger or Longbottom watch it like hawks."

"Longbottom!" Draco scoffed. "Closest he'll ever come to a hawk is if he shacks up with a Ravenclaw."

"That's eagles, ferret-face." Blaise snapped. "Anyway, like I said, that one was free. You want any more juicy bits, you'd better start digging in your pockets."

Draco's anger faded into a look of sly pride, and his stance shifted.

"Well, well, well," he gloated. "So that's it. I didn't think you'd be doing this for Slytherin."

"Come on, Malfoy," she grimaced. "Get real. We're sixteen. You think I give a damn about that greasy pervert Snape and his stupid little House?"

"So, the Zabini's are short of a bit, are you?" Draco jeered. "I should have guessed that's why you can't ever afford any girls' clothes. Well then, start talking."

"Not until I get some money." She folded her arms, then leant forward and snatched the torch back out of his hands. "Until then, you can stay nicely in the dark."

"How do I know you aren't pulling some kind of double-cross?" Malfoy eyed her suspiciously. "You've been pretty thick with Potter all term."

"'Least I need a reason to be pretty thick," Blaise traded. "Anyway, what about that precious motto you're always so fond of? 'Serpents fangs close upon all foes, but not their own kind?' I'm a Slytherin, Malfoy. So, I don't care much about it, but you think I'll stick a knife in your back for a Gryffindor?"

Malfoy scowled. Blaise glared impatiently.

"All right. Just one thing, just to convince you. I've brought something along." She dug her free hand into her pocket.

"What?"

Blaise threw the torch on the floor, drawing her wand smoothly from her pocket and extinguishing the flame.

"What's going on?" The pitch of Malfoy's voice rose slightly, and he advanced threateningly through the deep shadows.

Blaise's voice laughed mockingly as a figure moved out from the dark turning ahead.

"Serpents shouldn't bite themselves," she remarked. "But it's _really_ funny to watch when they do."

"What's going on..." Draco found his own wand. "Lumos," he managed, and the faint glow gave him just enough light to see the figure in front of him, wand drawn, slash it through the air.

"Expelliarmus!" Harry shouted. Draco's wand flew from his grip.

"Stupefy!" from Blaise, and, with barely a moan, Crabbe sank to the floor. Malfoy scrambled backwards.

"Goyle, get them," he shrieked. "Accio wa--"

"Repellos!" Harry Potter snarled, and Malfoy was flung back through the air, landing painfully on his back.

"Goyle!" he coughed, desperately scrabbling for his footing. Goyle moved hesitantly in the gloom.

"I... er..." the boy dithered.

The silhouette of Harry loomed over Malfoy, illuminated only by torches further down the corridor, an eerie flickering grey backcloth against which the Boy-Who-Lived was outlined in inkiest black.

"Start talking." He grated.

"I don't know what you're talking about--" Malfoy shook his head, fingers clawing at the flagstones. He wasn't ever sure he _could_ summon his wand properly, although he'd never have admitted it... but if he could just find it, then Potter would regret this...

"Liar." Harry leant over him, his tone flat, lethal. "Liar. Liar. I've already heard enough from Blaise. Someone I'd have once called a friend is dead, because of Voldemort, Malfoy. Your dad was on that raid with him, so I promise you, I'm already going to kill him. Now, you're in contact with Death Eaters... right?"

"No..." Draco choked. His throat seemed to be tightening, his lungs labouring. "No... it's not... that..."

"Where is he?" Harry thundered. "Where's your father? Where's Voldemort? Where can I find them?" he screamed.

Goyle ran. Malfoy's eyes started, and he looked back at the dark shape. Before, he'd seen only blackness, but now, in the depths of it, he saw the light glinting on Harry's spectacles, reflecting twin stars, burning with rage.

"I swear, I don't know!" Malfoy's voice cracked. "I haven't heard from him, all right?"

"All right!" Harry stepped back. Malfoy breathed again- and his fingertips found the tip of his wand... He twisted his hand to grasp it...

"Vios superior!" Harry rasped, and the ground was torn away from Draco's back, the ceiling rushing up to meet him as he spun up through the air. "Adheros!" The boy snatched Malfoy's wand in flight. "Lumos." He paused, looking up at the pinned Draco, a thin smile on his lips.

"Now," Harry began again. "I've had enough of you. Just... enough. No more nonsense, no more of it... because I've..." he stopped, and tried again, an uncharacteristic harshness in his voice, his face set almost rigid. "All right, Malfoy. I'll deal with it direct. I can understand Lucius not wanting to trust a little git like you... but I'm sure I can persuade Narcissa to give me something a bit more useful." He bared his teeth.

Malfoy let loose an involuntary choking sound.

"It's not something I can just 'let go', Draco," Harry snarled. "If I don't stop him, he'll kill every last one of us... I've got to stop him..." he shook slightly. "Any means necessary. Anything."

"You hurt my mother, Potter, and I'll..."

"Release!" Harry cancelled the sticking charm, and Malfoy crashed to the floor. In a moment, Harry was on him, rolling Draco on to his back before the Slytherin boy could regain his senses, forcing his head back, and pushing the tip of his wand under Malfoy's chin. "You'll what, Malfoy?" he grated. "Get this into your head," Harry snarled. "I haven't... got... time... for... you. Tell me something, or get out of the way."

Malfoy stared into Potter's eyes. He knew the boy, hated him, true, but thought he knew something about what made the cursed boy tick. Seeing the raw hatred burning behind those green eyes now, he wondered for the first time if he'd been wrong.

"Please..." he choked, still struggling. "I don't know anything... please don't hurt my mother... she doesn't... "

Harry stared. Then, with a whimper of disgust, he threw himself back away from Draco, scrambling across the floor, and retreating down the corridor, soon nothing but the echoing sound of feet drumming on the stones. Malfoy struggled to his feet, his bones aching, and felt about on the floor for his wand. There was no sign of Blaise anywhere. With a curse, he found Crabbe, revived him, and pulled him to his feet. Furious for his moment of weakness, the Slytherin prefect hid his frightened face in the darkness.

"Come on," he ordered his remaining subordinate. "Potter's _finished_ here. I'll have him thrown out before dawn," he snarled savagely. "Come on!"

* * *

Harry ran. Beneath him, he heard a cracking sound, a trailing breaking cracking of stone that followed him as he ran up through the castle, out of the dark corridors near Slytherin's Common Room. He pushed past two third years, his face white, and staggered round a corner, slumping against the wall. 

"What am I doing?" he asked, wrenching his glasses from his face and ferociously rubbing at his eyes. It had seemed like such a perfect idea after the Quidditch match. He needed to know... Blaise had been delighted to help... and the raw need inside his heart had quietened. He shook his head fiercely, grabbing a tangle of his hair and pulling it hard, until the roots screamed. "What am I doing?" he repeated, pushing his spectacles back on to his feet, and swaying upright again, swallowing repeatedly to keep down the gorge that threatened to rise in his throat.

Fear took him then, cold and clammy. Fear of Voldemort. No... no, he wouldn't become like him.

Wouldn't I? I had to threaten Malfoy, to stop Voldemort? Did I? Would I have killed him to stop Voldemort? Would I have killed him to save Ginny? Of course. Too late for that. Too late.

"No... she's still alive... she's still alive..." He pulled himself on, unsure of where he was going and why.

She wishes she was dead. She wanted to throw her life away in the Pensieve.

"Because of Voldemort." He stopped, and knew exactly where he was going. "Tom Riddle." A great tide of blood rose roaring in his mind, and he held it back, drowning emotion in the forced emptiness that was his only refuge against the thoughts of the Dark Lord. He went on.

Eventually, he came to the room he sought, and opened the door.

"Lumos." Harry's voice was as calm and inflectionless as earlier, when he'd spoken to Draco on the pitch, the agitation that had claimed it when he'd spoken with Oliver drained away. He looked around the room, searching for his prey, sighting a row of gleaming gold cups along one wall. Ah yes.

Unhurriedly, and still followed by that curious cracking noise, Harry strolled across the flagstone floor and began to work his way along the row.

"Harry James Potter and Virginia Weasley," he read, and the dull grey haze of logic in his mind flashed brilliant red.

No, not yet... not yet...

He soothed his mind, spoke calmingly to it. Rage was something best... appreciated at the right moment.

"Award for Special Services to the School." Then he moved to the next one in the row, the next back in time.

"Cedric Diggory." This time the rage burned, and he felt a tingling sensation in his scar- but the pain that followed was distorted, oddly echoing, and carried a distinct cold sensation with it.

Not... yet.

Harry fought the rage, gripping the wooden plinth that held the cups tightly, gritting his teeth.

Not yet.

"Harry James Potter and Ronald Weasley," he read. "Award for Special Services to the School." Then he walked along a few cups, and carefully lifted down one, quite old cup, and brushed away the dust from it.

"You notice how you've only got one, of course?" He carried the cup over to the door- noticing as he did so a most peculiar series of cracks in the stones on the floor. Harry went back along the corridor, talking to the cup as he went. He didn't plan on going particularly far. "As against the two I've got. Says something, doesn't it?"

There, that would be perfect. He walked into an empty, musty classroom, and kicked the door closed behind him. Then, smiling tranquilly, he placed the cup on a desk in the middle of the room, stood with his back to the door, and drew his wand. Now he read the inscription on the cup.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle. Award for Special Services to the School."

Harry opened the doorway he'd pictured in his mind, and allowed the rage to enter.

"You're expelled."

* * *

A cataclysmic explosion shook the castle, and- as she hauled herself to her feet, trying not to tread on any of her intoxicated colleagues, Hermione could have sworn that Gryffindor Tower wavered for a moment, and gave a distinct and queasy wobble. She looked across the Common Room. By the time she'd returned from the library, having given up on her day's research in disgust and expecting that nothing more aggravating than _another_ dead end could possibly await her in the Tower, the party had, it seemed, lost much of its earlier atmosphere. Most of Harry's year had retreated to their rooms- the last leaving a little shamefacedly. Neville, one of the more sober- although none the less a little flushed in the face, had told her something of Harry's earlier outburst. Hermione had been proud of him for his criticism of Oliver's antics, but horrified to hear that he had drunk a whole bottle of the stuff himself. Now, in the midst of haranguing a somewhat miserable looking Wood, she had been thrown to the floor. 

"What the devil was that?" Oliver remarked in a laconic tone. "Surely not Fred and George Weasley." He was still sitting by the fire, sadly contemplating an unopened bottle.

Hermione glanced down at the empty bottle, and swore vitriolically.

"Harry."

Finding Harry in a crisis, Ron had once said, was never particularly difficult. You just followed the trouble. Hermione ran through the corridors until she encountered a series of footprints, apparently forced into the flagstones themselves. She knelt, examining them. Accidental magic. Someone very, very angry. She got to her feet, drawing her wand as she did so, and hurried on.

It wasn't long before she found him, sitting just behind the door in an old classroom close to the trophy room, chin tucked between his knees, his wand lying on the floor in front of his feet, the tip still glowing slightly, and his hands shaking. He was contemplating a large hole in the wall, and the charred remains of a desk which appeared to be teetering on the brink, with a certain grim satisfaction. Hermione moved in warily, taking care to make as much noise as she could, but the boy just continued staring out into the night wind, the smile gradually fading from his face.

"Harry... what happened?" she asked.

The boy shrugged.

"I got rid of Voldemort," he said, in an off-hand, too casual sort of tone. "Well, at least, I would have done, if he was just a little gold goblet." His mouth pulled into a manic grin for a moment, and he giggled. "Wouldn't everything be simpler if Little Tommy was an eggcup?"

"Harry, are you all right?" She knelt beside him. Harry turned his head, the grin vanishing in an instant, and a genuinely puzzled expression crossing his face.

"Am I?" he wondered.

Tentatively, she put a hand out to his face. A small piece of flying stone had cut his cheek, Hermione noticed. He flinched away, and she drew the hand back.

"He's taken... everything," Harry told her, in a dead voice. "Ginny... Ron... Sirius... my parents... I haven't got anything left, Hermione... and he still wants more."

"Harry..." She bowed her head. "For God's sake, Harry, don't do this to yourself." She looked up again, and pulled his chin round, glaring into his eyes. "Listen to me... Ron and Ginny are alive... you've got to do it for them. For Ginny, think about it that way if you've got to, if you won't live for yourself..." She screwed her own eyes up fiercely for a moment, then met his gaze again. "For her."

Harry's eyes turned downward.

"It was after the funeral," he whispered. "I shouldn't have... shouldn't have kept trying so hard." He swallowed, and looked at her. "We'd all gone back to Grimmauld Place... Ginny was like a ghost, Hermione. She just... followed us round. When Fred and George... well, they told me they had to do something to see Percy off... it wasn't anything much, but even Molly smiled. Ginny just... looked through them."

He shook his head.

"I didn't understand it. Not really. Then... we were just talking. All of us. Anything to keep our minds occupied, thinking about something that was actually happening. Arthur and I were talking about... I can't remember- yes I can," he corrected. "It was to do with the Amoeba Vendetta. Anyway, Ginny just stood up. She didn't say anything, she just stood up and went out into the hall."

Harry curled up more tightly, feeling the knot in his stomach growing more painful.

"I went after her," he whispered. "They told me not to... but I went anyway. I thought... I thought, I don't know... but she'd destroyed every one of those pictures, Hermione. They'd started to say something to her, you know, Mrs Black's usual insults... and they'd just gone. Just fire and rags left." He smiled a slow, sad smile. "Ginny." Then his face darkened. "She'd gone upstairs. I followed... I went into her room... she was just lying there, Hermione!" He grabbed the girl's hand. "Face down on the bed, just so still and cold and this time I thought she really was dead..." He looked up at her, and his eyes were dark, the grip on Hermione's hand painful.

"I called out something... went to her... and she just turned over on to her back when I touched her... and she just said: "It was my fault.""

"But that's mad, Harry," Hermione protested. "How could she think...?"

"Riddle." Harry snarled. "Riddle, and that blasted Pensieve. He put the foul idea in our heads that Ginny somehow... somehow agreed to sign her life away to him when she wrote in that diary." He snatched his hand away, remembering...

_

* * *

... "It's not!" Harry sat down on the bed next to Ginny, trying to pull her towards him. "Ginny, whatever Voldemort said... it's just lies. You think I wanted Fudge dead? You think I wanted... wanted Percy..." he broke off. _

"But I wrote in the diary," Ginny forced the words out, past lips twitching and writhing, her eyes wild and dangerous. "I agreed... Harry, I did." She looked at him, the fear growing in her face. "I walked into the Chamber- no one took me."

"You were cursed!" He seized her in his arms. "Ginny, you remember... you told me yourself... you told me. The Imperius Curse. That's all the diary was..." He tried to find her in the depths of her eyes. "You remember... you must remember... you didn't agree to anything. Ginny, it's not your fault!"

"You fought the curse, why couldn't I?" She tore away from him, running to the wall of the small room and turning, at bay, Harry between her and the door.

"Ginny, you were twelve years old... you think I could have fought off the Imperius then? And even if you had... you don't really think that's why he killed Percy, do you?" He walked towards her slowly, watching her eyes as they roamed about with the ferocity of a cornered animal. All the life, all the energy that had been drained away from her over the last few days seemed to have returned now- but focused through rage and hatred. "Ginny... he's a killer. That's what he is. You know it. Nothing we said... nothing we'd done would have changed him." He fought to keep his voice level. "You told me... remember it, Gin, please..." he held out a hand. "You told me to stop trying to kid myself that Voldemort was somehow my fault. You said, yes, maybe he'd never have been reborn if it hadn't been for me... but if it hadn't have been for me he'd never have been destroyed in the first place." Her eyes fixed on his, and he looked pleadingly at her.

"Come back, Gin, please..."

"No one's fault..." she whispered. Then, doubt clouding her face, "No one can do anything..." she looked accusingly at him. "You remember," she turned the tables. "You can't stop him," Ginny snarled. "None of us can, he's going to kill everyone..."

"We can..." Harry hesitated. He had to be strong. He had to. "I'm sure... I'm sure..."

"LIAR!" Ginny ran past him, drawing her wand. Harry froze, a chill like the north wind biting at his spine.

"I... I won't fight you, Gin," he said. "Whatever you do. Anything you want... but I will not fight you."

She shook, her wand weaving through the air in front of her. Her eyes focused suddenly on its tip, and her other hand shot out, grabbing it and holding it between her hands, held up in front of her face.

"What good is it?" she grated. "Just tell me what this has ever done for anyone that's worth all this pain?"

She looked up at him, tears blossoming in her eyes again. "I don't want it, Harry... not if that's what it costs, I just... don't... want... it... any... more..."

A moment before it was too late he saw her intent, saw the muscles tense in her arms.

"Accio wand!" Harry shouted- and Ginny's wand leapt from her hands to his just as she prepared to snap it in half. "Ginny," he sobbed, putting her wand down on the bed. "That doesn't help... please... just..." he broke off, taking in her expression, and Harry Potter realised that he had made a mistake. A very bad mistake.

Ginny looked at him, her face pale, her lips a thin white line, the only colour below her hair seeming to be the red around her beautiful, hate-filled eyes.

"How dare you?" She turned her back to him, and walked slowly away, hands hugging her waist. Then, she spun back to face him, and her face was red with raw, naked rage. "How dare you? What gives you the right to say if I have to go on fighting this damn war of yours?" Ginny snarled. "I've had... enough. Enough magic, enough wands... enough people getting killed."

"Gin, what good would it do?"

"It would finish it!" she shouted, eyes flashing. "Then he could just come and kill me too and it'd be over?"

"And what about Molly and Arthur!" Harry felt anger rising in him as well. "And Ron? And Fred, George, Bill? And Charlie?" He stared at her. "Ginny, you can't just..."

"And what about the 'famous' Harry Potter?" Ginny screamed. "What about him? That's why you want me alive, isn't it? You keep... trying to pull me back... always trying to save me... leave me in the dark! Just leave me there where no one can hurt me any more!"

* * *

"We... well," Harry flinched at the memory. "What she said... the rest of it... it's up to her if she ever wants to tell anyone else. I won't," he finished stubbornly. "I don't think she ever wants to even set eyes on me again for as long as either of us are alive." 

"She's angry, that's all..." Hermione hesitated, putting her hand up to his. "Harry, in time..."

"Damn it all, Hermione," Harry sank his face into his hands. "If only... if only Malfoy's dad hadn't given her that book in the first place, then she'd never... then Voldemort would never have been able to make her think..."

"Book?" Hermione lunged forward at him, her fingers suddenly squeezing her wrist till it hurt. Miserably, Harry looked up at her again.

"The diary," he groaned. "You know... Hermione, what are you doing?"

She stood up, and looked round the ruined room.

"Voldemort's old school things..." she breathed. "It's... just... possible. Harry, how good is Dobby's memory?" she asked him urgently. Harry sat back against the wall and stared at her in confusion.

"What? Pretty good, I think... why...?"

"I'll check with him," she said, then crouched down beside him again. "Harry, listen to me... I'm going to have to go away for a few minutes, all right? You'll be fine. Just... just sit still. Stay right where you are." Then, her feet barely able to keep up with her urgency, she hurried from the room. Harry watched her go, and slowly, exhaustion creeping over him, he led his head fall forward on to his chest, and lay still amidst the wreckage and desolation about him.

They came for him. Dimly, he felt strong hands lifting him- Hagrid, he thought. He heard Professor McGonagall, hovering between concern and anger, Snape, angrily shouting... then silence. He drifted in and out of sleep as he was carried through the castle... up the stairs... more movement... he was being seated in a chair... dimly, he wondered if he was being brought before the Wizengamot... no... no chains... but perhaps he wasn't a threat... other voices... silence... the sudden roar of floo powder... more voices, a woman, shouting... the calm voice of the Headmaster... then silence again.

"Well now, Harry," a voice sounded, suddenly clear and loud, cutting away the fog in his mind, "I think we need to talk, don't you?" said Dumbledore.

* * *

**Qazok:** Thanks for the comments. English teachers, university tutors,and Microsoft spellchecks have, between them,been underlining 'long sentence (no suggestions)' in wiggly green pen on my work for about the last fifteen years or so, though, so I suspect I'm unlikely to ever totally kick that habit. I did indulge it slightly for these last couple of chapters with Hermione's P.O.V.though, as I suspect she'd be likely to suffer from a similar tendency. :-) Still, I'm trying to cut down.

On the first point you make, of Harry's confidence... well, let's just say that if I build something up in order to smash it down with a _hammer_, then when I smash it, the reverse is also true. ;-)

**AriKitten:** Not much good happened, as you've heard. On the other hand, there was also a more business-orientated conversation that Harry had, which you're not going to hear about for a while. Quite a long while... On the downside, Harry's bitterness continues, but not for very much longer.

Can you see where Hermione's weird and wonderful imagination is about to take her now?

**szesad**:Glad you're enjoying things, and thanks.

**Queerditch Marsh: **'Wotcher', as modelled by that dedicated follower of fashion Nymphadora Tonks in OotP, is a (now slightly outdated) English slang 'hello'. It's dropped out of common use in the last ten years or so, so saying it both makes Tonks a child of her time, and gives her the air of a fairly 'Muggle-clued-up' witch, who's none-the-less a trifle out of synch. "Taking the mickey out of someone" just means making fun of them. A more common variant today would be "Taking the piss".

Glad Milner's working out for you- he's taking a little bit of a backseat at the moment, but his particular thread of the story is still involved... just behind the scenes.

On Harry/Ginny... I agree thatit does sometimes seems a little too perfect for Harry to suddenly turn round and say "Oh, hang on a minute, Gin, I've just realised, I love you, don't I?" five minutes into a fanfic... but, on the other hand, I like Ginny's character- at least, her character as established in OotP. I know that may be hard to believe at the moment, but I swear, I do!Besides, something just doesn't 'fit' about Harry/Hermione to me. My take on _that_ relationship is that Harry sees her as a sister, while Hermione _is _attracted to Harry a little, but _also_ loves him as a friend, and is certainly not willing to ruin her friendship with him over it.


	24. Heroes Past and Future

**Chapter Twenty-four:** Heroes Past and Future

Harry allowed his eyes to roam slowly over the Headmaster's office as his vision cleared, wanting to delay the confrontation with the old man for as long as possible. Most of the myriad portraits of old headmasters that hung from the wall were, as usual, seeking to feign sleep. A few, though, sat upright, staring at him in a certain amount of- he supposed- justified contempt. He was aware of Dumbledore's eyes, glittering, watching him patiently from the other side of the desk. He looked at Fawkes, smiling at the bird- then winced. A Phoenix. Responsibilities twisted in him like a knife, and he wrenched his head away, and met Dumbledore's gaze.

"The Sobriety Charm should have cleared your head a little," the Professor told him, sounding amused. "Although I'm afraid to say that it is no help whatsoever with the later after effects." He chuckled slightly. "The landlord of the Hog's Head used to make a great deal of money selling a potion he claimed cured hangovers."

"I... take it it didn't work," Harry said quietly, while he tried to gather his thoughts. Dumbledore looked surprised.

"Oh no, Harry, it worked exceedingly well, and for a time was very popular, until certain officials from the Ministry discovered that the excrement of goats formed one of the major ingredients. A young clerk named Cornelius Fudge made a press statement to the Daily Prophet, and I fear it was inevitable that interest in the mixture decreased after that." The Professor straightened his spectacles, and sat up a little straighter. "But this is keeping both of us from our beds, Harry, and there are certain things I must discuss. Narcissa Malfoy is most aggrieved."

Harry looked warily at Dumbledore from under his brows. The Headmaster sighed.

"I am aware of your dislike of Draco, Harry."

I think there are kangaroos in Australia who've worked out I don't like the little git by now, Albus.

"I am..." he paused, and looked solemnly at Harry. "I also understand the strain you have been under." He waited a moment, then held up a finger. "That does not excuse your actions. A wanton attack on a fellow student, even under these circumstances, is..." Dumbledore hesitated, "Both in violation of school rules, and... a sad thing for me to witness in you, Harry."

The boy muttered something.

"I beg your pardon?" Dumbledore leant forward.

"I said, expel me, then." Harry snapped. "Go on. Snap my wand in half and kick me out. Like it'll make any difference."

"I do not propose to do that," the Headmaster said, looking a little displeased. "In the first place, there is clear evidence from several students- including Miss Zabini, from Mr Malfoy's own house, that Draco provoked you- earlier this afternoon- or yesterday afternoon as I should say now," he amended, glancing at a small gold and glass framed carriage clock. "At the Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw." Dumbledore paused. "In the light of this, and certain other factors, I have managed to persuade Narcissa to drop her formal request for your suspension- although you will have to serve detention, Harry."

"I said, expel me." Harry repeated, stubbornly. "It'll give Tom something to laugh about."

"In the second place," Dumbledore continued, standing up slowly, his eyes glinting with annoyance, "As I imagine you realise, Harry, your position at this school- especially at this time, is a unique one... and..."

"Oh yes," Harry snarled at him, standing up. "I realise that all right. You couldn't expel me, could you? I could blast Malfoy in half, tear down the Astronomy Tower, boil the lake... and still it'd be 'poor Harry, I'm very disappointed, Harry, I will do what I can for you, Harry..." he took a step forward. "Can't you at least just... just treat me like a person enough to be angry with me?"

Dumbledore watched him, his eyes hooded in shadow. Harry advanced.

"No," he answered the rhetorial question. "Oh no, I'm too important for that. Too important because I've got your damned prophecy, haven't I?"

"That..." The Professor swayed slightly, putting one arm on his chair for support. "Harry, the prophecy is not of my making." He looked pained.

"Oh, but it is," Harry disagreed. "The only one he ever feared, that's what they called you," he spat. "Now you want me to kill him, don't you? You want me to be some sort of weapon, some... some _thing_ you can use to save the world. I can't do it, don't you get it, you old fool?" He reached the desk, leant over it towards Dumbledore- still looking at him so kindly, so compassionately. Harry's eyes blazed. "Why..." he shook his head. "Why won't you just stop him? You're the greatest sorcerer in the world... he's terrified of you..." His whole body shook. "Why me? Why's it got to be me?" Dumbledore stared back at him, his eyes unreadable, some strong emotion surging unidentifiably below the surface. "All you do..." Harry condemned him, "You can fight him, you can beat him- you did it in London... but all you're willing to do is just... just _sit_ here, looking smug and twinkling your eyes at people, gloating that you've got me right where you want me!" He stepped back, drawing his wand. "Have I got to kill myself then," Harry grated, every word aimed like a dagger at the old man's heart. "Is that what it takes? Is that how I stop Voldemort? Take myself out of the picture so you've... so you've got to save the world? Is that what it means? Is that the only way I can save them, make you do something!" He screamed the words at the headmaster, and his rage sank.

Dumbledore stood silent. He blinked, several times. He looked at the floor. He looked at the ceiling. Then, the light in his eyes like ice, he looked at Harry.

"I... CANNOT... DO... IT!" The Headmaster roared, and his anger was like a thing alive. It billowed out across the study. The desk cracked and splintered, and Harry was flung back, hurled through the air amid a rain of debris. Dumbledore came on.

"Do you think I would willingly foist this on you?" The old man thundered. "Do you really believe that I wanted this to be your life, Harry? That it has been my choice to sit here these past years, silent and impotent, while you face the darkness?" He stood over Harry, wand drawn... and then a terrible sadness doused the rage in his face, and he turned away.

* * *

"Ready?" Hermione fastened the top button of her DA jacket, and glanced around the kitchen. She shifted her grip on her wand, and squeezed Dobby's small, long fingered hand tightly with her left. On Dobby's other side, Luna beamed at her, her large, silvery grey eyes sparkling with an anticipation that Hermione was quite sure she didn't feel. Still, most of the more capable DA members in Gryffindor had been too drunk to rouse, and certainly in no fit state to be capable. 

"Ready," the fair-haired witch replied.

"Ready," Dobby squeaked, and the universe twisted about them with a protesting 'pop'.

Hermione and Luna both staggered as they dropped in a geometrically indescribable direction on to the cold stone floor of a dark and cavernous hall. How the house-elf had brought them here was not exactly apparition- that wouldn't have been possible from Hogwarts, even if either of the two girls had known how to do it, but rather that strange and illogical magic of the house-elves. She kept her grip on the small creature's hand, as his tennis-ball eyes cast about to either side, and he made a low keening noise in his throat.

"Quiet, Dobby," she whispered. "Just remember, we're doing this for Harry."

"Harry Potter!" Dobby chirped, in something that, while muted far below his usual, somewhat penetrating voice, none the less failed to meet any of Hermione's criteria for 'quiet'. She hushed the elf, looking round in alarm- but the hall was empty. Slowly, following Dobby's lead, the girls moved with cat-like, alert stance across the room.

A deathly chill seemed to pervade the place, despite the heat of the fire. Looking up, she saw great hanging flags and banners, such as decorated the buttresses of Hogwarts' Great Hall ranged along below the shadowy roofspace- but these were green and silver, every one, excepting those few that were murky black.

Draco grew up here? This explains a lot.

Something moved in the darkness, and she spun round, aiming her wand. Nothing. Just a cat or something. Hermione took a deep breath.

"Let's get this over with." She glanced at Dobby. "You're sure you can take us to the library?"

The house-elf nodded, confidently- his pride at helping Harry Potter evidently easing his obvious terror at being back in the Malfoy family home.

"Dobby remembers everything," he squeaked, and tugged at the door. Struggling to open it, he hopped up on to the frame, pulling and straining with all his weight. Hermione hesitated, unsure of whether to help. Luna reached out, pushed the door open, and walked through. Dobby squeaked, falling through the door as it opened, and springing up back on to his feet on the black and red chessboard pattern floor of the corridor outside.

"Silly Dobby, silly Dobby," He scurried over to the wall, and Hermione caught him up in her arms, stopping him from beating his head against it.

"Be quiet!" she hissed. "Come on." A nasty thought had occurred to her, just as they'd come through the door. Narcissa Malfoy might well be a powerful witch in her own right, and probably likely to take a dim view of Hermione's larcenous enterprises, but, as they crept through the darkness to where Dobby swore he'd once seen, dusted, and tidied a book of the description she'd given him, something else preyed on her mind. Somewhere in this country, she remembered, trying to keep the chill of her spine from chattering her teeth, Voldemort is hiding. Probably in the home of one of his old allies, waiting... waiting.

This was, on reflection, a really bad idea.

* * *

"Oh, Harry..." Dumbledore sighed, his voice drowned in sudden weariness. He sat down behind the desk again, and surveyed the ruination of ornaments and mechanisms about him. "We seem to have a common outlet for our rage, you and I..."

Harry dragged himself back to his feet, staring at the old wizard. Hesitant, fearful of provoking another outburst, but still simmering with his own anger, he spoke.

"Why?"

Dumbledore looked round at him again, for a moment surprise in his eyes, and then he nodded, smiling sadly.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Harry..." he shook his head. "Delaying the inevitable- a habit of old age, so I'm occasionally told." He ran his fingers through his silvery white beard, and conjured a chair for the boy. "A habit or a definition. Occasionally, I forget."

Harry sat down, still watching the headmaster warily. Dumbledore sighed.

"You asked me why I would not stop Voldemort," he murmured. "Perhaps, Harry, you should ask me why I did not stop him the last time he arose? Why James and Lily Potter had to die to save you?" The Professor bowed his head, and something twinkled in his eyes- the lamps around the room, reflected in tears like crystal. "Why I, who destroyed the Dark Lord Grindelwald, whose rising covered the Earth in darkness, did nothing but sit behind my desk, I believe you said, and help to guard this one school when Voldemort rose."

"No..." Harry spoke, his throat dry. "I know you founded the Order- I'm sorry... it's just... now... why me?" the question came out with a plaintive, whining catch in it that disgusted him. Dumbledore's wise old face looked at him in compassion.

"Because I cannot, Harry," he sighed. "You should ask me why, when you were eleven, I left it to three first years to save us all from the spectre of Voldemort, returned and immortal? You should ask me why, a year later, I left it to you to save us from what lay within the Chamber of Secrets. I knew who Tom Riddle was- although I did not know where the Chamber was to be found, surely, you might argue, I should have been able to see the truth."

He set his head back against the chair and closed his eyes in sorrow.

"My power is waning, Harry."

"But... at the Ministry..." Harry started.

"It does not dwindle steadily, Harry. Comfort yourself with this, as I try to do when my wrath at my own ill choices grows too great. Had I helped you more overtly, shown more power, brought my will and knowledge to bear more heavily upon destiny in those earlier, more innocent times, then I would not have been able to save you this summer past." He passed a hand across his brow.

"You mean... it would have killed you?" Harry stared, terribly afraid. If Dumbledore was dying... But the old man shook his head.

"The measure of my life is not known, Harry. Nor do I know if my action hastens my end. Only my power- and not my magic, but my footfall upon the universe, only that is precisely measured, only that must I guard so jealously, until the last, until I can see that there is no other option to me than to intervene directly."

"I don't understand." Harry looked at him, seeing the grief and the regret written plain in the old man's face. Slowly, Dumbledore's eyes opened, and something of the old sparkle was in them.

"Tell me, Harry," he asked. "Do you believe in destiny?"

* * *

"Here... here, Hermony," Dobby skipped excitedly outside the door, dancing, eyes still flashing about wildly. "Here library..." he bubbled, "Come quickly, we mustn't stay here, we mustn't stay here..." 

Hermione and Luna pushed through the wooden doors and looked around. The library was a vast room, almost as large as that at Hogwarts, and unlit. Luna's hand moved towards a candle, held in a bracket by the door, but Hermione stopped her, and drew her wand.

"Lumos minima," she whispered, and a tiny light flared at her wand's tip. "Come on Dobby..." she saw the fear in the elf's face. "Just take us to it... and we can go home."

They crept through the shelves. Old books groaned and hissed in the dark. Luna gazed about herself.

"That's fascinating," she remarked, pointing at one book, its spine lettered in a peculiarly angular script. "That's the Book of the Unwilling," she looked at Hermione, a peculiar glint in her eyes. "Father's been trying to tell the world for years that it's real."

"Fine..." Hermione scowled. Now that they were- she hoped- so close, the fear of discovery and the fear of failing mingled in her heart. She'd come so far in the last few days. So close. Now, this was her last lead. If she couldn't get Ranbrot's book, she had no idea where to turn. She crossed her fingers in the dark.

"Here!" Dobby squealed from up ahead, and in the faint wand light she could see him, skipping along between the shelves, a large book cradled in his arms. "Here is the book that Hermony wants to make Harry Potter well! Here it is! Dobby has found the book!"

Hermione lunged forward.

"Well done, Dobby!" she praised, and reached for the book. "But for goodness sake, be--"

"Impedimenta!" The shout came from the door, and a flash of light knocked Dobby from his feet, his legs tangling slowly beneath him, moving too slowly to stop his fall, the book skittering away across the floor and under a shelf. Luna and Hermione whirled round, wands ready, only to have them cursed out of their hands. By the doorway, Hermione saw the flick and spark of a small lighter, and glowing haloes of dirty yellow light flooded out from it, oozing across the room to the candles and oil lamps that- now- illuminated the library.

A tall, thin woman stood in the doorway, her platinum blonde hair pulled back from her face and bound up behind her head in a loose bun, her features stern and certain of her own superiority. Her nose wrinkled in disgust at the sight of the two girls facing the tip of her wand, as she returned the Put-Outer to the breast pocket of her pyjamas. Pink pyjamas. Neon pink. Worn with pink slippers. Pink, fluffy bunny slippers.

Trapped by a woman who was, at the least, the wife of one of Lord Voldemort's most senior Death Eaters, and fearing for her life, Hermione none the less found that, as she stared at Narcissa Malfoy, the most prominent thought in her mind was the reflection that, in fact, Draco Malfoy really made perfect sense, when you looked at things logically.

* * *

Harry shook his head. 

"I don't..." he put a hand to his forehead, trying to ward off the headache that was beginning to spawn there. "No. Voldemort does, but I don't. We're responsible for what we do ourselves."

"A wise answer," Dumbledore mused, and turned away from the light, letting dark shadows fall across his features. "I have always believed that our will is, in the beginning of things, absolute and free... that only the choices we make and the lives we lead- and that others lead before and, perhaps, after us, constrict that freedom. Yet it is possible for a choice to create destiny, Harry. I speak of Fate's Crucible." He waited, and nodded very gently when Harry reacted.

"McGonagall said you'd... she said you'd made some sort of bargain or something," he started. The Professor nodded.

"The crucible is very old, Harry. Not in its physical form- it was merely a glass punchbowl that Armando Dippet, Nicholas Flamel and I enchanted to serve the purpose... but the spell behind it is one truly ancient." He paused. "Some legends say that it was made by Merlin, to give himself the power necessary to overcome the darkness." Then he laughed, a mirthless, mocking sound utterly unlike his normal hearty tones. "Others say that it was made by Merlin, as a trap for his enemies because he knew that he could not overcome the darkness."

Dumbledore rose to his feet, strode across the room and stepped up, towards the small balcony which overlooked the grounds. "Walk with me, Harry," he breathed, and, as Harry followed, the old man continued. "Fate's Crucible allows one to create a destiny- or, at least, a part of a destiny, for yourself. You may constrain the free will and magic- for the two are one and the same, as you will, I'm sure, learn in your life, Harry- of no person but yourself... but, if you wish, you may draw up a bargain with that fate you have conjured into being. Some have chosen long life- but they can draw no more from the crucible than they are prepared to offer into it. If their lives are long, then they become empty, meaningless. " He looked down at Harry, his face thoughtful. "That was not my choice," he added, and his eyes sparkled with the starlight as they stepped out beneath the dome of the heavens. The storm had passed, and the sky was brilliant with lights in the darkness.

"My long life is my own, Harry, such as it is," he shook his head slightly, the sad smile returning to his features. "I chose something else. I chose power."

* * *

"I will not tolerate this." Narcissa Malfoy's lip twisted, and she stalked- at least, as best one can stalk in such footwear- towards the girls. "I'll see Dumbledore sacked for this. First, the Potter brat assaults my son, and now... you... two slatterns break into my house, clinging to the tail of an ungrateful elf." 

"We're trying to fight Voldemort," Hermione snapped at her. "Or is that the problem? Doesn't he like us either?"

"The Dark Lord is nothing to do with me, girl!" Narcissa snarled. "Or my son! Whatever Lucius may have done, you have no right to persecute us."

"I'm not trying to persecute anyone," Hermione protested, backing away. "I just want to stop him. Just... leave us. We only want..."

"No!" Mrs Malfoy's Banishing Charm threw them back through the air, until they impacted painfully on the shelves behind. Fixed to the floor, the dark oak held against the collision, and the two girls dropped to the ground. "What you will receive is pain..." She held her wand aloft again. "Cr..."

"No!" Dobby bounded between the three humans, and, springing back to his feet, flung out one hand. The air rippled with the peculiar magic of the house-elves, and Narcissa was flung backwards- her wand flying from her hand as she did so. "Old mistress will not harm friends of Harry Potter," he hissed, turning his long-nosed head back to the two girls for an instant. "Please," he squeaked. "Find book quickly. Dobby is afraid, Miss Hermony."

Narcissa, knocked on to her back by the spell, struggled painfully into a sitting position, glaring at Dobby in hatred. She made a sudden movement, reaching out towards her wand, and Dobby raised his hand again, growling.

Narcissa threw her head back, and called in a voice like the terrible screech of a hundred hunting owls:

"Eirlys! Eirlys! To me! Your mistress is in danger!" she shrieked- and something came out of the blackness, scuttling along the ceiling like a four-legged pale spider, and curling through the air, dropping between Dobby and Narcissa, uncurling its limbs and standing upright, two ice-blue eyes either side of a long, pointed nose glaring at its former work-mate in loathing. Eirlys drew back her own arm, and cast a ball of flame at the other house-elf.

"Dobby!" Hermione shouted- but Dobby had seen it. He leapt backwards through the air, twisting sideways, catching the blue flame with the edge of his hand and somehow sweeping it round his flying body, casting it back towards Narcissa's house-elf. Eirlys leapt out of the way as Dobby spun, and the ball made a blackened hole in the wall behind her. She regarded it for a second, and turned her face back to face Dobby. She snarled.

"Come _on_," Luna grabbed Hermione by the hand. "We've got to find the book!"

"But what about Dobby..." the bushy-haired Gryffindor protested.

Dobby, meanwhile, had found his footing, and sent another ripple of power back at Eirlys. She leapt high to avoid it, raining fire down on him. The little elf twisted and turned, leaping through the air, but slowly being pinned down. As Hermione's eyes widened, one fireball streaked towards the centre of Dobby's chest. In mid-air, he seemed to freeze, floating, letting the other fires pass him- and stuck out one hand, palm out towards the ball.

"Stop!" he squeaked. The fireball struck his hand, and died away. The green-eyed elf turned in the air, and dropped to the ground, smiling nastily at his opponent. He turned his hand, so that the back of it faced Eirlys and, circling inward toward her, beckoned. She leapt, one foot stretched out, aiming for Dobby's face, and he slipped sideways out of her path, grabbing her waist in mid flight and sending her spinning back, out of control. She coiled in the air, struck the wall with both hands and rebounded back on to her feet.

"He'll be all right," Luna said, in a slightly breathless tone, as Dobby cartwheeled across the floor, leapt up and bounced across the ceiling, before landing with a swinging kick that sent Eirlys flying into a shelf. "He knows kung-fu."

* * *

"Power?" Harry repeated, disbelieving. The old wizard smiled bushily at him. 

"A fool's desire, Harry," he said. "I know. But also not a thing I feared to give up in later years." He leant his hands on the railing, and looked out over the dark of the Forest. "And back then I had such great need of it- I could not have known that I should face that same need again." Dumbledore sighed. "That was the nature of my bargain... we all tread upon this world, upon the lives of others. With our power- magical or otherwise, we each have an impact upon all that is around us... our part in the harmony, I think our esteemed Dark Arts Professor calls it." The Professor looked up then, and peered at the stars.

"I chose that then, in that time, I should have the power, have the footfall that could change the world, before another changed it in a way too horrible to contemplate. The price I paid... the price I did not hesitate to pay, Harry, because I was never wise enough to think that this very time might come again, was that... in the days to come, because I could not take more from the crucible than I had offered into it... there is so much that I cannot do. Time, destiny... fate... call it what you will. The world will not suffer me to impose my will on it by more than a certain measure- and much of that measure is already drained away."

* * *

Hermione strained with all her might, trying to lift a fallen shelf- toppled by a stray blast of power from one or other of the house elves- and ducked to avoid a wandering ball of fire. Luna grunted, as the shelf's weight came down on her arm, and the two girls lifted it together. She could see the book. That had to be it... she stretched her arm out towards it... 

Eirlys rebounded from the ceiling, her long toes clawing for Dobby's face as she sprang down. The green-eyed free elf folded back on himself, sliding out of her way, and spun on the floor, knocking her feet out from under her as she came down, then springing back, away against the wall and coming down flinging balls of fire. The first she dodged, and it struck an oil lamp, which exploded in a shower of glass- the second impacted hard on Eirlys' back, and she howled, leaping for the door. Dobby watched her scuttle away, and sniffed meaningfully.

"I've got it!" Hermione wriggled out from underneath the shelf, the book, the _right_ book clasped in her hands.

"Hermione!" Luna pushed her out of the way as a green flash of light arced between them. Narcissa Malfoy had recovered herself enough to find her wand, and was scrambling to her feet to set up another shot.

"Arboreus!" Luna shouted, and a darker green rippled through the library, accompanied by a smell like blossom. Narcissa flung up her arms- and, half-way through the shield charm, she changed. Hermione staggered back to her feet- she had held on to the book as she fell, and as a consequence landed rather hard on her posterior. The sight of a rather odd small, thickly branched tree, whose branches and roots were arranged in such a way as to resemble a human form- and a tree on which someone had, for some reason, arranged a pair of pink pyjamas, caused her to raise her eyebrows a little. Luna walked over to the tree, picking her way through the debris of wrecked shelves, and pausing to shake hands with Dobby.

"How long will it last?" Hermione nodded to the tree.

"Only a few minutes," Luna told her, and sniffed the bark. Her face wrinkled. "Dutch Elm. How horrid."

"We'd probably better get out of here," Hermione commented, checking the title and author of the book for the fifteenth time. "Dobby, that was... fantastic." She crouched down and took his hand. "You're a marvel." She looked around uneasily. "We really need to get out of here." In the distance, she could hear a scurrrying, scuttling sound. Dobby cocked an ear towards it.

"Eirlys is coming back," Luna hazarded- but she was wrong. Six house elves- two on the floor, two rolling and crawling along the ceiling, and two leaping madly along the walls, burst through the doorway, skeletal bodies uncurling, limbs finding the floor, arms raising, and multi-coloured eyes gleaming with malice. Pale fires kindled in each hand.

"We need to get out of here... now!" Hermione yelled, and Luna caught hold of Dobby's other hand, the Hogwarts elf gave a peculiar lurch sideways through space, and, as the first balls of flame began to fly, they were somewhere else entirely.

* * *

"For twenty years we fought against the rising of Grindelwald," Dumbledore told Harry, speaking quietly in the chill of the night air. Some virtue of the night sky, or the balcony, seemed to calm the wrath and confusion in the boy's mind, and he stood, silent, at the old Professor's side. "We fought valiantly, and we held our ground... but he was terrible, Harry. Half-man, half-goblin, the last king of a great line, and the dark and lesser son of greater fathers who had led goblin-kind far into the light. Relatives of his- both the the more human and more goblin-like scions of his family joined us- few survived the war, for he looked upon their treachery particularly unkindly." The old man looked up at the stars. "Filius Flitwick is the only one who remains alive today of that household, according to the scope of my knowledge- and he and I have fought side-by-side on many a fateful day." 

Dumbledore paused for a moment, lost in thought, and then went on, the magic of his voice carrying Harry far away, caught up in the passion and the sadness that resounded in the Headmaster's soft tones.

"We did not know that he had allied with Muggles, not until it was almost too late. The strange stirrings in the heart of Europe- the peculiar and savage lust for pure-bloodedness that gripped them, their fascination with the arcane and the ancient myths... all those should, perhaps, have been warnings to the wise, but we were concerned with our own war, and neither saw the signs of the Muggles' own struggle, nor cared as much as we should for their affairs."

"Grindelwald had bought the soul of one of them, we learned later, when the black symbol of his power had already marched across Europe, had woven the tapestry of history to suit both their ends. He promised this man... this thing something he could not give, he made the impossible promise to a creature filled with hatred that he, Grindelwald, would take this Muggle's muddied bloodline- I apologise for the expression, Harry, but it is from the writings of Grindelwald that the current vulgarism originates, and make it pure, recreate this man who would rule the world in the image of his ideal- if this man would agree to cleanse the world of all others who did not conform to that ideal. So Grindelwald set the world of Muggles to the sword, and in their fire and war he sought to drive us back to the brink of extinction."

Again, Dumbledore paused for a long time, then, taking his hands from the railing in front, rested his back against the stone doorframe to the balcony.

"For six years then, I fought him in the final horror of our long conflict. I fought him with power far beyond that of any human wizard, far beyond me..." He considered. "At least, far beyond what any one person could normally draw upon from themselves. I had made the bargain, you see. We had made the crucible, and I had poured in the wine, had struck it, heard the crystal chime, and drunk deep, binding myself to the destiny I had chosen. I made that choice when I saw that there was no longer any other choice open to me- the night that the Muggle Prime Minister, and the Minister of Magic, returned from a meeting with his Muggle foe and with Grindelwald himself, and told us, their will blanked out and scorched away, that there would be 'Peace in our time'." Dumbledore shook his head, and coughed. "There was peace... but not for that time."

"For six years I fought him. Six years in which I struck down the dragons which flew invisible amidst the Messerschmidts over London. Six years in which I waged war with ice in the heart of Russia, called down the Candles of the Cold, summoned the Great Winter out of the far North and cast it in his despite, and broke the back of his army." The old man leant forward again, and swayed against the railing. Harry put out a hand to support him.

"Thank you, Harry," Dumbledore murmured. "It has been a long time, since I let these things have so great a sway on my mind. He passed a hand over his brow.

"Should we go inside?" Harry supported the headmaster. As Dumbledore nodded, wearily, the two made their way back into the warmth of the office, Harry bringing the Professor's chair from behind the desk and motioning to him to sit down. Dumbledore did so.

"My old bones do creak a little tonight," he chuckled. "Too much rich food, I fancy, Harry. Now, where was I, I wonder? Ah yes... yes, the war. We won. Finally. The armies of darkness were broken in the cold of Russia, and in time the other Ministries around the world joined us... and Grindelwald was broken- but in his final defeat came our greatest peril," Dumbledore's face darkened again. "He sent out Muggle scientists, and wizards too, men of great power from his own allies, and changed their minds, altered them to desire to serve our cause- after their own terrible fashion."

"It was his last trap," Dumbledore told Harry. "His last great act of evil- his essence bound up in the very nature of destruction. Should he fall, his magic would flow out to these weapons of science and magic, these bombs of death that his followers now unwittingly created for our allies, and draw out their power, stretch it forth like a black hand that would have consumed the world." The old Professor's voice shook, and Harry saw blank horror behind his eyes.

"Only at the last, when we saw the madness unfolding, did the Wizengamot come to realise the truth of this... and only I, because of what I had become through the crucible, had the might and will to stop him. In each of the Hands of Grindelwald, as they blossomed in flame and death in the uttermost East, I fought him, now a creature of hatred and chaos, fought while the flesh and blood and bone of innocents was destroyed about me, fought to set limits on the unravelling of the universe itself..." Dumbledore stopped talking, breathed deeply for a long moment, and continued, more calmly. "And the darkness was brought low- at least for a while, the Dark Lord was slain, his engines of evil gone. And with them, my freedom to act as I chose, to draw upon power and not heed limitations."

"And since then...?

"Since then I have been paying the price," Dumbledore told him, with a sad smile. "It is a price I willingly pay, Harry, since I have noticed that power, like most heavy things, is only rarely useful, and most frequently a tiresome burden that makes the shoulders stiff." His eyes twinkled again, but only for a moment. "I had not dreamed it possible that another Dark Lord would arise in my lifetime."

"And you can't stop him."

"I lack the power," Dumbledore spread his hands, honestly. "Or, to be more precise, the universe lacks the will. Because of what I have done, destiny knows my name, Harry, and in its usually indifferent mind it bears the irrefutable conviction that I have done enough, that my name is already written in enough pages of history, and that this battle will- must- be fought by another." He raised his eyes. "I cannot defeat Voldemort, Harry. I know of no other who can, save yourself." He hesitated, then put his hand out to the Boy-Who-Lived. "I do not know for certain that you can win through... but, if it may be done, you are the only one who can."

Harry remained silent for a long moment. So much of life had been torn away from him by Voldemort. So much life had raced by him, childhood screaming by in an instant and then gone, lost forever in the past while he reached out for it. He didn't want any of it. Didn't want Voldemort, didn't want magic, not any of it. He had asked 'Why me?' and Dumbledore had given him half an answer. Now, he told the old man the other half of that answer.

"I'm standing on this same planet with him, it's as simple as that." Harry said. "You're right, I maybe can't beat him- I probably can't... but I'm going to try."

* * *

**AriKitten: **Thanks, I'm glad Harry turned out all right in that chapter- it went through far more redrafts than normal, trying to strike the balance- I wanted him to make a bit of a fool of himself, since he's not thinking clearly, but for it to still be more tragic than farce. Yes, I'd pegged Malfoy's bullying ways in the books down to him being scared of most things as well. He's a little git, isn't he? After seeing her choice of nightwear, I think most people may be afraid for Malfoy's mother.

**Wolf's scream:** "pushing his spectacles back on to his feet" is, of course, an old and much respected tradition in the wizarding community. Um... hm. I'm not fooling anyone with that, am I? I'll try and find that typo, so I can shoot and frame it. Oh, and welcome aboard. :-)


	25. The Scar

**Chapter Twenty-five:** The Scar

Kingsley Shacklebolt massaged his eyebrows, and scowled into the morning sun. Work was not going well. The temporary base they'd established for themselves on the unused top floor of St Mungo's was fine in and of itself, but the move (not to mention the devastation that had made it necessary) seemed to have sent the whole Auror organisation, and especially the parasitical bureaucracy that tended to grow up around it, into chaos.

Tonks hovered in the doorway to the cramped little office for a moment, unnoticed, carefully pulling together a particular form, and reaching into her holdall. With a grimace of disgust, she found what she was looking for, checked the final details of her appearance in the glass of the door, and marched in, in as best an approximation of Molly Weasley's busy 'hedgehog' manner as she could estimate. Kingsley looked up sharply.

"Molly?" he began, his usually deep voice worn a couple of notches higher in the last few weeks. "What are you doing here... Arthur's all right, isn't he?"

"Well, there you are, young man," 'Molly' told him, with a motherly smile. "I thought you'd be wanting some lunch, and I know you'll never remember to buy sandwiches," she told him, swinging something large and clammy round from out of her bag, and dropping it on to his desk. "So I thought I'd as well be to make you a packed lunch." 'Molly' folded her arms and looked down at him. "Aren't you going to say thank you?" Kingsley looked slowly up at the woman, then down at his desk. The thing lay there, staring blankly up at him, a damp stain beginning to seep through the paperwork beneath it. He looked back at her, and narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. He waited.

"Come on Tonks..." he sighed.

Tonks's nose wrinkled up, and her features relaxed back to their more usual configuration.

"Wotcher," she said, in a resigned tone, then added, "You guessed," pouting at him.

"Mrs Weasley's not known for marching into the office and dropping rottencarp on peoples' desks, Tonks," the Auror told her, with a sigh. Tonks pulled a face when she suspected her superior wasn't looking, and went over to the window to test the look of lilac hair in her reflection.

"All right," Shacklebolt groaned. "I'll bite- and no puns, please. St Mungo's canteen's not that bad, so I'm guessing you've got some other story to tell me?"

"Right you are there," Tonks spun round, grinning savagely. "It's a Portkey."

He eyed her a little worriedly.

"The fish... is a Portkey?"

"Yep." Nymphadora sat down opposite him, flinging her feet up on to the desk. Kingsley's in-tray went flying. "Sorry. Anyway... take my advice, and don't activate it, unless you're a damn good swimmer."

"Where does..." he stopped, and looked up at her, eyes glittering slightly. "Hogwarts' Lake?"

"The very same," Tonks grinned broadly at him. "And, frankly, I'm glad I've finally got the thing off my hands. I'm many things, girl of many talents me, but natural mermaid is not one of them. Three times I've tried to get down here in the last couple of days- three times I've accidentally set the flipping thing off and had to swim for it and then do the whole damned journey again." She scowled for a moment. "Anyway, you see the cuts on the fish's belly there? Thin webbing, and slight burns. I'm not the first thing to grab hold of it the wrong way and end up under the lake. I'm prettier than the last one, though."

"You're right..." Shacklebolt held the fish up, carefully, feeling for the magical signature. "Hard to see... I don't want to trigger it myself..."

"I think it's the dorsal fin," Tonks suggested. "That always seems to set it off."

"I'll try and avoid it." He nodded, studying the marks. "You're right," he repeated. "An Amoeba Vendetta did this, or I'm a Muggle." A slow smile split his face, and he looked at Tonks over the rotting fish.

"If we can have a magical trace done on this," he told her quietly, "then we'll be more than half-way to finding out who sent the thing in the first place." His face grew more serious. "And if Arthur and the Potter boy were right about the Amoeba coming from the Ministry," his tone quietened still further, "This could be just what we need."

* * *

Over the next few days, Harry saw little of Hermione outside of classes and the Tuesday meeting of the Defence Association. She seemed to be spending all her time in the library, mind focused entirely on the Ranbrot text she'd recovered from the Malfoys, and on what it might mean. For his part, Harry threw himself into his work with a ferocity that both delighted and alarmed his teachers. The anger still burned in him, but now it was matched by a furious determination to succeed- or, at the least, to fail according to the best of his abilities. 

Since his conversation with Dumbledore, he had tried to make up to his friend for his initially dismissive attitude to her research project. Hermione though, seemed far too wrapped up in herself to be much aware of his change in attitude- at least, that was the reason he hoped was true. He was acutely aware that he had treated her rather badly in the days after his return from London- and had tried to apologise, but had lost track of what he was trying to say when she had started to stare fixedly at his scar, and then begin examining it with her wand. Still, he had to remind himself quite regularly, she was doing this for him, for the Order, and he owed it to her to let her do it his way- even if he had nearly lost his temper with her again when he heard about her little excursion to Malfoy Manor.

"You could have been _killed,_" he'd seethed. On the other hand, when Hermione had heard the whole story of his attack on Draco, she had snapped:

"You could have been _expelled,_" with equal horror, so he supposed that they were, largely, even.

His evenings were not his own to any great degree- Professor Dumbledore had held him to the detention he had assigned, and each evening after dinner- excepting only Tuesday night, he was expected to report to the Headmaster's Office to be trained and examined in Occlumency. Harry's progress there had been good- and Dumbledore was both a far more skilled teacher of the subject than Snape, and undeniably more pleasant to work with into the bargain. He had expressed pleasure and surprise at Harry's skills- albeit mingled with a certain concern, which the Headmaster had endeavoured- unsuccessfully- to keep to himself. Harry could follow the run of the venerable Professor's mind well enough on this occasion, and it redoubled his eagerness to hear the results of Hermione's work.

If I'm showing the sort of talent he thinks I am, how come Voldemort can still break into my mind so easily?

The thought nagged at him, threatening to unseat the resolve he had so recently recovered.

He stood up, picking up his bag and joining the throng of students leaving the lunch table, and made his way to the Defence class room, meeting Neville and the rest of the group- although not Hermione- along the route. They found her waiting outside the classroom, pacing up and down and muttering to herself.

"It's official," Dean remarked. "It's having all those brain cells weighing down on your spine, or something like that. Being a genius sends you round the twist."

Hermione's face flushed, and she looked sharply at him.

"At least I'm not killing off my brain cells with Firewhisky," she snapped.

"OK, OK..." he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"How's it going, 'Mione?" Harry asked, swinging his bag to the other shoulder. Hermione tugged at her hair irritably.

"I keep getting so close, Harry," she grimaced. "I have the feeling I'm overlooking something really obvious."

"As the Quidditch player said when he tried to fly without his broom," Professor Milner stalked round the corner. "Anything I can help with?" He unlocked the classroom. Harry and Hermione exchanged glances. They hadn't even told the rest of the DA the full story behind her project. Neville and Luna both knew, of course- and it occurred to Harry that, if Luna knew, the chances were fair that Milner had an ear to the ground as well, but he didn't feel comfortable discussing the matter with him- certainly not in the corridor where all sorts of ears, including those of a furious-looking Draco Malfoy, were to be found.

"It's just a bit of private research, Professor," Hermione told him. Milner turned, gesturing to the group to enter the classroom.

"Very good," he commented. "And most wise to keep one's cakehole firmly in the 'off' position where such sinister and untrustworthy sorts as Dark Arts teachers are concerned." He waited in the doorway until they sat down. "Especially as I'm going to be hexing the blazes out of your bespectacled friend here in about five minutes time."

Harry hissed slightly through his teeth. This time, he really, _really_ wasn't in the mood for one of Milner's games.

The Professor grinned wildly at him, and opened his eyes wide, giving an even less sane than usual cast to his countenance.

"Smile, Harry," he said. "It takes years off your life." He frowned, then studied the ceiling for a few moments. "No..." he remarked after some deliberation, that should have been, 'It takes years off you', shouldn't it? Yes, probably, well, never mind, it all depends if you're smiling into the face of a Rejuvenus Mirror that likes you, or into the face of a savage nugwort, I suppose. The latter treats the baring of teeth as a threat and will rip your face off if you so much as open your mouth." Milner strolled to the front of the class. "Remind me to bring one of those to the next exam," he commented, finding his place in his brain again.

"Now." He paused, looking round the students with a glint of anticipation in his eyes.

He's on fine form today,

Harry reflected, irritably.

"Now," Milner repeated. "Now is the winter of our... no, no, that's the part I'm trying to get Snape to try out for in the Hogsmeade amateur dramatics circuit... oh, blast it, how was I going to start this one... ah yes, now..." He paused.

A classful of students, with expressions ranging from amusement to resigned boredom, tapped their wristwatches in unison.

"Now," Milner repeated, with a light smile, "So far this term, we have studied both offensive and defensive magic. Many of you have succeeded at being very offensive indeed, and I assure you, this will be reflected in your end-of-term grades, which you may, in turn, find extremely offensive. And thus, the cycle and natural balance of life is preserved... but I digress."

"Endlessly," Blaise observed.

"Ahem." Milner smirked. "There is, however another aspect to combative magic that we have not touched on so far. Arguably it falls under the defensive sub-heading, but arguably not. When you've finished bouncing entertaining hexes off your Death Eater, and successfully prevented him or her, or it, if you've been duelling with Voldemort- but we'll save that for your end-of-term examination," he threatened, "And have captured them, what do you do next? I'll assume we've skipped past the vital business of kicking him when he's down for the sheer hell of it."

"Um..." The class looked at each other. Neville spoke up.

"Put him on trial?"

"Precisely, well done, Mr Longbottom, and twenty points to Gryffindor for not saying 'Kill him'. Of course, you still want to restrain him in the court room- there's usually a particular charm placed on manacles in such places, which can also be cast as a spell, if need be." Milner gave Neville a genuine smile, and turned to Harry. "Would Mr Potter join me at the front now, please?"

Harry gave Hermione a look of small surprise- it was rare for Milner to actually _ask_ to demonstrate anything on him. Perhaps the odd man had registered Harry's mood more than the boy had thought. Still not feeling overly happy about it, but distinctly less annoyed than he would otherwise have done, Harry walked up to the blackboard.

"Now," Milner began, and someone gave a theatrical groan. He turned away from Harry. "One point from Ravenclaw, Miss Bones, I'll do the bad jokes, thank you, and now, let us imagine that I have just fought and won a particularly strenuous duel--"

"Conjunctivitis!" Milner dived sideways with a grunt, and Harry's curse missed him by inches as he scrambled behind his desk.

"Protego!" Milner shouted. "I said we'd just fought the duel," he called. "I won it!"

"Never turn your back on anyone you've just beaten," Harry grinned at him. "They might not be as finished as they look."

"Very good advice," Milner called, and, dropping his shield and diving out from behind the desk at the same time- which caught the brunt of a splitting spell a moment later, cast a Stunner at Harry. "Everyone... take notes..." he narrowly avoided a Spinning Spell, and only blocked a Banishing Charm with his shield at the last moment. "Protego," Milner gasped out. "Mr Potter, if you wouldn't mind..."

"Revolutus!" Harry cast, a particular glint in his eye, and Milner leapt backward- straight into the spinning debris of the desk, the real target of the spell. He sat down in the wreckage, and gave Harry an old-fashioned look.

"I suppose I deserved that," the Professor chuckled. "All right, Harry... I surrender." He held up his hands.

Harry lowered his wand, and Milner got- a little stiffly, to his feet. He gave Harry a shrewd look, taking in the boy's gleeful smile, and made a tiny nod of satisfaction, before turning back to the class.

"As I was attempting to say," Milner heard Harry move slightly behind him, and turned. The Boy-Who-Lived held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. "Suppose that I had managed to disarm Harry?"

"Not likely," Neville muttered.

"Would you demonstrate, Mr Potter?" The Professor asked. "I'm hesitant to attempt a disarming spell on you at the moment." Harry shrugged, and laid his wand on the tray at the bottom of the blackboard.

"Thank you, Harry." Milner's own wand flicked out.

"Accio wa--" Harry called, reaching out his magic towards his wand, which started to move towards him.

"Captivia Incanus!" Milner roared, and a faint purple sheen seemed to settle over Harry's vision. He saw the wand drop to the floor, and felt a strange dull ache in his fingers. Shaking his head to clear it, he looked round to the Professor, who was smirking slightly.

"It's an inverted shield charm, really," Milner told him. "One of the reasons the Ministry actually managed to capture any Death Eaters alive in theold days. Not very powerful... You'll note I had to disarm Mr Potter first- the charm requires a great deal of power to block a directed spell, and can only be used like that for extremely brief periods, but it does provide a magical insulation field- and prevents the captive using any wandless magic." He mopped his brow. "It's not a terribly energy efficient spell, as you may note, and... ah!" The purple glow faded.

"Accio wand!" Harry shouted, and snatched his wand out of the air. Milner mopped his brow.

"If you are shielding anyone other than yourself," he remarked, as Harry made his way back to his seat, "Then, in certain circumstances, it may be a more practical alternative to the Shield Charm. Consider, if, for instance, you want to protect a large number of people from one aggressor."

Harry rubbed his hand gingerly.

"Something wrong, Mr Potter?" Milner looked concerned.

Harry stretched his fingers out, then clenched his fist, then opened it again.

"Cramp," he shook his head. "That's all, I think."

"Ah." Milner walked over and turned Harry's hand over, resting his wand on the knuckles.

"Nulles impedia incanus," he muttered, and moved the wand across Harry's fingers. "That should ease it a little- I'm sorry, Harry, you got a little further through the spell than I'd thought." The Professor walked back to the front of the class, his voice rising back to a lecturing tone. "Note that, if the wizard you enclose in this way has already begun to cast a spell, they may on occasion suffer slight adverse effects, since the captivator field blocks off the normal outlet for their magic."

Seamus put his hand up.

"But can't they just... well, drop it?" he suggested. Milner turned.

"Not as easy as it sounds, Mr Finnegan. Once you have begun to direct your magical energy, it tends to need to be released in some manner- of course, we all build up a certain field of undirected power over time, and that tends to dissipate along with the accidental magic that even the most highly trained wizards generate from time to time, however much they may claim they don't," he smirked. "However, there is a limit to the amount of power you can re-assimilate in that fashion. Mr Potter there was, I imagine, rather irritable when he cast his Summoning Charm- I'd just double crossed him, after all," Milner remarked, with a shameless grin on his face, "And so channelled rather more energy into the Summoning Spell than is, strictly, necessary. "

He tilted his head to one side. "Think of it as the difference between a Quidditch Beater swinging his bat at thin air, or at a Bludger, or swinging it at an unyielding wall. If that much force is released, and has nowhere to go..."

Hermione froze.

"What?" she whispered, in a queer, high-pitched hiss of a voice.

Milner stopped talking, and his right eyebrow creased into a peculiar, one-side frown. He stared at Hermione.

"One does wonder, one does, ha-ha, what," he remarked, "If Miss Granger is feeling quite tip-top and ticketty-boo this afternoon."

Hermione's lips worked soundlessly- then, her eyes wide, she breathed a deep breath, and glanced quickly at Harry, before looking back to the somewhat perplexed teacher.

"Sorry... Professor, _what_ did you say?" She stared.

Milner's eyebrows both raised now.

"Hm, half a point from Gryffindor for bad manners, and three quarters of a point for showing an enquiring mind," he mused.

"Please, Professor," Hermione growled. "That's it, that's got to be it..."

"It's quite elementary spellcasting, Miss Granger," he remarked, causing a snigger from some of the Slytherins. "Magical energy forms a current, and tends to seek any outlet it can."

Hermione stared at him. Then she laughed- a quick, laboured cough of a laugh which she quickly stifled.

"I'm sorry, Professor," she told him, shaking her head with an expression of wonderment on her face. "Of course, it's so simple. I just didn't make the connection..."

Then her gaze flicked back to Harry, who was regarding her in concern, and the amazement in her eyes changed to dread.

* * *

After the lesson, she seized him by the arm. 

"Ow..." Harry, who had been in the middle of asking Neville how he was adapting to his new wand, tried to extricate himself. "All right, I'm coming... let go, Hermione, I can walk, you know..."

"Come on." She marched him from the room, her face intent. "This is serious."

Harry's face cleared in a moment, and the earnest look she'd seen in his eyes so rarely since the disaster at the Ministry settled on his features.

Good, he's been keeping his mind in training again. He might need that.

"What's happened?" he asked, drawing level with her.

"What Milner said." Her face was set in a grim cast, as she once again ran through the theory in her head. No, not theory, fact. The proof was walking along next to her.

"What?" he asked. "Hermione..." he protested.

"Yes," she allowed a brief, self-mocking smile to touch her lips. "The final piece of the puzzle, something so... so obvious I just didn't think about it." They were outside the portrait hole to Gryffindor Tower now, and Hermionepractically barkedout the password, leading Harry inside.

"Can't this wait till lunchtime?" Harry looked concerned. "Not meaning to tread on your territory or anything, 'Mione, but I'd really rather not get sent to Dumbledore's office for bunking off Transfiguration at the moment."

"No," she told him, "It can't wait." A few seventh years looked up from their text books as Harry and Hermione entered the Common Room, and she looked round for a moment, undecided, then glanced aloft.

"Go on up to your dormitory," she told him. "I've just got to get the book. I'll be there in two minutes."

He went up the stairs, frowning intently. Harry had the distinct impression that he was not going to enjoy whatever was ahead of them. He doubted there was any explanation for his scar that was exactly likely to leave him jumping for joy, and the mingled horror and certainty on his friend's face did nothing to assauge his foreboding.

Moments later, she followed him in, clutching the large black book she'd... reclaimed from the Malfoy library, and sat down on Ron's bed, looking at him, her eyes narrowed.

"I'd better start from scratch," she decided. "You'll need to see how I got where we're going."

"You're the brains," he told her, with a vague sigh.

Hermione started to unbutton her shirt.

"Er, Hermione," Harry started, in slight alarm.

"What?" She looked blankly at him, then down at herself. "Oh, yes, of course," she said, distractedly. "Never mind that now. Look at this- the scar," she added. Harry nodded, rolling his eyes slightly, and then examining it, his expression more one of amused resignation than embarrassment.

"It's a curse scar," he told her, then, eyes suddenly stricken, he looked up at her accusingly. "You never told me he'd hurt you that badly, 'Mi."

"Never mind that now, Harry," she muttered. "I managed to finally hammer out a proper explanation for curse scars a couple of nights ago- when Dolohov hit me with the Cardiarrestae, some of the magic didn't go into the curse, but it was carried along with it- unfocused magic, just like the tingling in your hand. It makes sense, really, if you think about it. We're human beings, and, no matter how well we're taught, how precisely we perform an incantation, the amount of power we throw at it tends to be instinctive- you always throw too much of yourself into your spells, for instance."

"Mainly because I'm trying to get them to work," he protested. Hermione was rebuttoning her shirt.

"That's what causes the vrai scars," she muttered. "It's... more like a burn than anything else, I suppose. Of course, it doesn't always look like a burn, not literally, but that's the reason there's excess magic floating around- and with a particularly powerful, destructive curse, it gets tied into the framework of the spell and dissipates against the target." She nodded. "I'd worked that out... _why_ didn't I think to re-apply the principle later on..."

"Well, what does that prove, Hermione?" he sighed. "That he hit me with a powerful curse- we've got that- then it rebounded on him," he shifted uncomfortably, "Because of what my mum did," he moved on hurriedly, "And nearly destroyed him. I suppose that's the same thing Milner talked about again."

"Similar, Harry, but not the same," Hermione told him. "Voldemort was actually hit by the Avada Kedavra- but it went wrong. His spirit was indestructible."

"Yes." Harry had been trying not to think about that overmuch. How do you kill an immortal, even if you manage to beat the pain that nearly destroys your mind each time he approaches you?

"I still don't see why my scar's still tied up with him, though?" He frowned. "Even if I did catch some of his accidental magic."

"It was a bit more than that," she breathed. "I didn't understand the rest of it- not until I'd learned about the Killing Curse." She hesitated a moment. "You're not going to like this, Harry."

"I've got to know!" He scowled. "Sorry, Hermione. It's just driving me mad," he stood up, abruptly, and paced too and fro."This thing, this power he's got over me. Just knowing that he could come back, for you, for Ron, for... for anyone, and I wouldn't be able to do a thing, after all I've tried... and that threat he made, just after we got back to school. By the end of the year, he said. The clocks keep on ticking."

"All right." She put a hand on his arm, and waited. "All right now?" she asked, after a moment.

Harry nodded and, slowly, edgily, sat down.

"The Avada Kedavra," Hermione told him, with a sigh, "is the most powerful of theUnforgivable Curses. It was made as the 'ultimate death', Ranbrot calls it. He seems to have been totally mad, by the way- I don't think he wanted to dominate the world, so much as destroy all life everywhere. Just... well, killing somewhat in the normal way," she grimaced. "If there is such a thing, wasn't enough. If you stab a sword through someone's head, they die... if you stop their heart..." she pressed a hand to her chest again for a moment, and then went on, "They die, but, in Ranbrot's view, that..." her lips twisted into an ugly snarl, "Takes away the crowning glory of the kill. You haven't actually taken their life, haven't killed them. You've just made it impossible for them to go on living, so they've died."

"I don't see the difference." Harry grit his teeth. Hermione gave a little snort of annoyance.

"Yes you do. I did- but I didn't want to think that way. He's not thinking about murder as something you're responsible for, but as a piece of..." she looked vaguely sick, "As a piece of artwork you've created, and something that immortalises you in some twisted monument in history. He thinks- thought, I should say, that when you kill someone normally, you can't claim the full credit, because really, the universe has done most of the work. You've just arranged circumstances."

"So what's his solution?"

"The Avada." Hermione shook her head. "It's a simple spell- really simple, in a way. Your mind, your... well, I suppose this is the tricky concept, what we tend to call your soul, is more or less the same thing as magic. It's the energy that you direct, the changes you bring to bear on the universe.

"Your footfall on destiny," Harry murmured to himself. She looked at him, a little surprised, but nodded.

"That's as good a way of putting it as any. It's tied up with your magical potential at an amazingly intimate level that no one has ever been able to understand or unravel. The Avada Kedavra doesn't draw just energy out of that concept, like most spells- except the Animagus charm, that's another exception- the Avada... extends your soul out through magic, until it overlaps and encompasses a living being... and then," she shuddered, "Crushes life itself. I can't tell you how- Ranbrot himself didn't know for sure how the theory worked... but he experimented. A lot. It seems to be like a wave that ripples through the target, just... cancelling everything out. The brain's left untouched, so is the body- at least at the macroscopic level... but there are no signals left. The brain's just a lump of tissue, organically unharmed, but every single impulse... every single pattern of information, every bit of life is gone. It seems to wipe memory RNA at the same time..." she stopped, seeing Harry's confused look.

"Never mind," she shook her head. "Just another part of identity. All that's left is a husk, and you can't trace it, can't block it, because it's not even really magic in any focused manner, just the lifeforce of the attacker converted into a concerted force of destruction."

"So... that's what he hit me with." Harry looked away for a moment.

And what he killed my parents with. He reached into their souls and smashed them apart.

"Except that, with you, Harry, it went wrong. The spell backfired. Because your mother had died for you... somehow, her love... her life.." Hermione trailed off. Harry looked back at her.

"I know what happened," he said, savagely.

"No," she told him. "I'm sorry, Harry, but you don't. What happened then is the reason Voldemort's still so close to your mind now, and everyone's been telling you the truth about that for years- but in exactly the wrong way. I know it, I'm sure of it."

Hermione took a deep breath, and went on.

"Life force and magic," she said. "They're the same thing, and that's how Voldemort survived. How he wanted to make himself immortal. He- somehow- mixed the two sides of the coin, tied his essence into his power. Whatever was done to his body, he would survive, because his power was indestructible." She looked at Harry, a frightened look passing across her features. "And it would... find an outlet, just like Milner said. Like electricity seeking the earth."

Harry moved his hand, massaging his forehead, his fingers unconsciously tracing the lightning bolt pattern of his scar.

"Voldemort cursed you," she told him, "And the curse rebounded- it wasn't blocked, you can't block the Avada Kedavra with conventional magic, it rebounded, all that power thrown back at him... but it wasn't working properly. If it had... I don't know what would have happened. The Avada Kedavra is the mind of the attacker, and Voldemort's mind and life were tied up with his power. With that combination, casting the spell on himself could have done almost anything... but the spell was falling apart. Voldemort couldn't even comprehend what your mother had just done, much less that his power was failing, and the spell was being twisted back on itself. What hit him was... something between the Killing Curse and the most powerful backwash of accidental magic the world's ever seen." She narrowed her eyes. "It obliterated him. It all makes sense," Hermione told him grimly. "All of it."

"And then he 'runs out into the night, barely alive,'" Harry sighed. That night, so long ago, had moved uneasily in his memories now for six years. "At least, so Bellatrix Lestrange said."

"Harry," Hermione looked at him. "The curse destroyed him. How could he run into the night?"

"I don't get it... I suppose... his mind. Not his body, but his mind. You said he'd made it immortal." He thought back to how Hagrid had described it, so long ago.

"He didn't have enough human left in him to die."

Harry pulled a face. "He went to the Black Forest, crept away somewhere- and then he met Quirrell... possessed him somehow, came back with him to London..." he trailed off. Hermione was staring fixedly at him, a look of mingled horror and triumph in her eyes.

"But you saw Quirrell in London, Harry," she told him quietly. "He wasn't wearing the turban then."

"Yes," Harry confirmed, irritably. All this had been nearly a decade after Voldemort had killed his parents, given him the scar. "He said- remember, I told you, down in that pit, after he made a mess of the raid at Gringotts, Voldemort decided to keep a closer watch on him."

"So where, Harry, was Voldemort before that?" she asked, in a sick tone of voice.

"I don't know- still in the Black Forest, maybe- he certainly wasn't with Quirrell- remember the first time I saw him with that turban on?"

"Voldemort didn't have a body, Harry. His body was destroyed by the curse." she repeated. She tapped her finger on the table once with each point, never taking her eyes from his. "I don't believe he ever went to the Black Forest- not until Quirrell was killed. Then... somehow, somehow he reached back in Quirrell's mind, found a memory of darkness like the darkness he'd found all those years ago, and fled to it." She swallowed. "His spirit was immortal- I think he can somehow... move between a mind and reality. At least, he could before he got his body back. He said he possessed animal bodies in the forest, after Quirrell had left him. Somehow, when Quirrell was destroyed, Voldemort threw himself back into the darkest place he could find in the man's memories... and pushed himself back through into the real world... then just waited for Wormtail to find him."

"But he ran out into the night... hid in the darkness..." Harry tried to twist away from her stare. He could not see the truth yet, but something seemed to be looming up behind her, a sense of absolute horror.

"That's what he told you," she told him, leaning forward intently. "That's what Bellatrix Lestrange saw from his mind. Think, Harry! What is the dark?"

A memory flickered across his mind. A small boy in tweed suit and cloth cap, crawling in terror across a station platform. Tom Riddle.

"I don't want to die!"

"Fear." His voice was numb, cold.

"I don't think Quirrell met anything like Voldemort in the Black Forest, Harry. I don't know who he was, if he'd served Voldemort before or not, but I don't think he was a willing servant this time- not until he was travelling back to Hogwarts, not until he stopped off at the Leaky Cauldron," her eyes gleamed, and her hand grabbed for his wrist, holding him in her stare.

"Voldemort feared me." Harry whispered.

"Voldemort had manipulated his mind, brought him to London to give him a set of instructions, to steal the Philosopher's Stone... somehow he used the power he could access to call out to Quirrell from far away. It would have had a side effect. When he called out... I think that was when you first spoke in Parseltongue," she told him. That time at the zoo, with your cousin." Hermione went on, firmly. "But when Quirrell failed, and when you were starting to move around in the wizarding world, and the fear grew that Dumbledore would meet you again, and see the truth this time, he had to take action- he instructed Quirrell to arrange a disguise, so his presence would go unnoticed... and then, when he saw Quirrell again, he took his body... and I think you know when that happened, too."

"But..." Harry clawed at his throat. "There in the Hall... the pain..."

"The pain isn't about the connection, Harry. It's the opposite. That was the first time, wasn't it? The first time the pain was ever that strong." She held his wrist tightly, her eyes staring hard into his soul. "The pain is his mind, moving about, thinking thoughts you can't think, evil thoughts and dreams that your brain can't stand and so it tries to tear away even harder." She continued. "Voldemort met Quirrell for the first time in that pub in London, Harry. Ten years before that, his body was destroyed when the Avada Kedavra rebounded on him, obliterated him... but his spirit, his evil... his magic survived, because he'd found a way- I still don't know how, to bind up the stuff of life into that magic, so that so long as his power endured, his soul couldn't die, couldn't leave the Earth." She let go of his hand. "Shattered, destroyed, almost mindless, his spirit fled _in the only way it could_, it fled and hid in the one place where his current power still survived, the last thing his magic had touched and- because it hadn't been able to complete the spell, where his power still lingered. Voldemort fled into the night, into the darkness, to the one thing he fears most in all the world."

"I know, Harry," she whispered, her tone brooking no opposition. I know why your minds are tied together, and why that connection can't be broken, why it'll stay between you, binding you _both_, so that..." she hesitated, and then went on, "So that eventually neither can live while the other survives. I know where Tom Riddle hid his mind, hid all that was left of him, tucked his soul and memories away, folded into the dark placesof another mindfor nearly ten years."

And slowly, steadily, she raised her hand and pointed her finger unwaveringly at Harry's scar.

* * *

Thanks to everyone for all the review that last chapter prompted! 

**Traveller: **The idea came to me in bits and pieces while I was planning this one- I don't subscribe to the idea that Dumbledore actually _enjoys_ manipulating Harry, or that he's a compulsive manipulator, so I wanted a reason for him to have to use people the way he undeniably does. He's been using Harry as a Judas goat since the first year, and I did want to make it plain that he is actually sorry about that, as well as about keeping secrets from him.

**AriKitten:** Continuing from the previous comments, I felt Dumbledore had probably been cursing himself (not in the magical sense) for having made the 'deal' with the crucible ever since Voldemort turned up, and when Harry turns round and says the same things he's been shouting at himself for decades, it's just... momentarily, too much.

I have no idea where Narcissa's charming night attire came from, but I liked the idea, so it stayed in. Kung Fu Dobby is available in all good petshops.

**Wolf's scream:** See above, on Dumbledore and Dobby- yes, it's a Matrix joke, but, you see, I haven't made the classic HP fanfic mistake of putting in a reference to a film that came out after the book's set, because, in fact, Dobby and Eirlys are the real names of Keanu Reeves and Carrie Ann Moss. They just wear sunglasses, and you don't recognise them. Incidentally, 'Eirlys' name comes from Jenny Nimmo's "The Snow Spider", so at least I'm stealing from a variety of sources ;-)

Yes, that was the missing copy of the book. Hermione hasn't actually told Madam P. that she's got it back yet- since after being stolen for that long, the book will probably end up chained to the shelf when Madam Pince gets it back, and Hermione's only just now finished with it.

**Yukito:** Glad you're enjoying the story, and thanks for reviewing! I did consciously decide to use 'Virginia', but I can't really claim credit for the change, it's widespread in the fandom since before JKR told us the "real" name. Since 'Ginevra' hasn't been used in books 1-5 though, I don't see any particular reason to be bound by that. I prefer 'Virginia', so that's what I went with.

**MissyMay:** Behold, one update ;-) The pace of them will slow a bit after Friday though, when, alas, I have to start back at work. I'll still be aiming for a couple of chapters a week though.

**James Rendle:** Well, he didn't really win WW2- he just did the lions' share of keeping Grindelwald back- and, of course, the final battle he fought in the war was actually against the two atom bombs dropped by his own side. Dumbledore's life's complicated, even for a schoolteacher.

**Qazok:** Glad the style sat better with you this time. I'm not sure I'd agree about Hermione- when something challenges her principles, or she gets focused on a goal, in some ways I'd see her as being even more 'Gryffindorish' than Ron or Harry.

**Strifestrike:** Thanks! Glad you're still enjoying the story.

**xmom:** Well, I've sent you an e-mail with a couple of suggestions about how to clear that problem so you can read the next few chapters... and if you're reading this, you've succeeded. If you haven't, you're not reading this. So, a sort of multi-dimensional conditional 'hello', then.

**Reviewer: **(Whoever that may be) Well, I wouldn't ask you to read on unless you actually want to of your own choice, but I think I've probably addressed a few of those objections you raised in the chapters since 4- certainly, that Harry _is_ unhappy with Dumbledore. I do think, though, that he's more likely to be caught up with the implications of the prophecy than with going all out to seek bloody revenge on his allies. And yes, I would say he'd regret acting on those impulses (re: Snape, in chapter 4). Think how much guilt Harry felt over Sirius, and over Cedric. The boy is actually a nice person! The only one (Snape notwithstanding) who really doubts that is Harry himself. He's also deathly afraid of becoming too like Voldemort, and that holds him back a bit. That particular situation's just come to a head, as you may have noticed... although, of course, if you, as you indicated, don't read on past chapter four, you won't read that (or this either- oh look, another quantum-dependent reponse)... and Harry's views on the subject are about to change a little. Still, thanks for the reactions.


	26. The Promise of Dawn

**Chapter Twenty-six:** The Promise of Dawn

Harry looked at her across the room, and his face remained unmoving, his deep green eyes watching her with no hint of his emotions.

Hermione waited. Still, the boy looked at her, still, his gaze remained the same.

She found herself forced to speak, to break the silence.

"He... he'd cast the spell, Harry. Then, when his power broke him, all that was left was his magic. Voldemort was- well, physically, at least, dead. Dead and gone, but his power remained, and somehow... somehow..." She waited. Still, he looked at her, his face expressionless, all the fear and shock that had been in his features when he'd realised what she was about to say, somehow draining away from it in some indefinable way, although the muscles of his face had not moved.

"Somehow," she went on, "Somehow whatever spells he'd cast around himself did what he'd planned them to do, and his mind, his memories, all of that was bound up in the magic- and it went into your head, Harry." She considered. "I don't even know for sure if he did it deliberately- I don't think he could have done anything different, after the curse rebounded. That's why you were able to learn some of his skills, access some of the power he had."

Still, Harry's face remained the same. Abruptly, Hermione launched herself to her feet, walking round the Sixth Year boys' dormitory.

"That's where he stayed until his mind found Quirrell- in your mind. Barely alive, I doubt Voldemort even knew who he was for a long time." A thought occurred to her. It wasn't, perhaps, the most comforting of thoughts, but she had spoken it before the implications came to light in her mind. "In a lot of ways, Harry, you possessed him, not the other way round. I think that's why he wants to..." she hesitated, startled to turn her head and find the boy looking at her still, his head turning to follow her as she walked, but still giving no other reaction. "To make you hate yourself so much," she concluded. "He's not trying to force his way into your mind, Harry, he's trying to escape it. He left- or most of him left, that first evening we were at Hogwarts, all those years ago, I'm sure of it. It all fits... but remember Snape, that time at Grimmauld Place? He couldn't leave- not altogether, not after all this time. Part of his mind's still trapped in there with you, Harry." She approached him again.

"I know it sounds terrible, Harry..." she began, "But..." Hermione stopped. What could she say, really? Urge him to follow the course she'd always advised against? Use the scar to pry into Voldemort's mind? Unlikely. The connection was strong, but the Dark Lord had had half a century and more's experience of controlling and dominating the minds of others. Although she was certain that the connection caused Voldemort as much pain as it did Harry, she could not deny that, for the Dark Lord, it gave him a chilling advantage. "But I'm sure there's something... we can't destroy the connection- the only way you'll be free is when... well..." She stopped, cursing herself.

Idiot.

"Harry, I'm sure there's..." Still, he stared blankly at her. "Harry!" She put a hand out and shook his shoulder, violently. As if a spring had been released, the young man's hand swung up, and caught her wrist. He looked into her face, and, slowly, but with a terrifying inexorability about it, Harry Potter's mouth pulled into a smile.

Hermione shrank away. The smile was too broad, wrong. He couldn't be... it couldn't be him.

She shook her head.

No, it's impossible... I'm sure Voldemort couldn't do it... he couldn't take him over...

I've been able to guess one of his failures... that doesn't mean I know the strength of his powers.

She tried to pull herself away from what she was suddenly, horrifyingly sure was _not_ Harry Potter, but his grip seemed immovable, and fear surged through her veins.

She knew. She knew the truth, had seen his failure, his weakness. Somehow, somehow, Voldemort had travelled back along that dark path between Harry and his evil, and now he would silence her... she knew it, and, frozen in fear, could do nothing. Harry's face looked up towards her, and light glittered in Harry Potter's eyes. He lunged towards her face.

* * *

Draco Malfoy shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Somewhere at the back of his mind, a voice screamed. Dully, he nodded his head. 

"I understand."

"You will be the instrument of his death," the man opposite him said, crouched over in his chair, one arm gripping the arm rest tightly, with fingers clinging to it like claws. The man sipped from the china cup in his other hand. "You will deliver him to our Lord when the time is right."

Draco nodded. The scream was dying.

"Drink your tea," the little man told him. Malfoy noticed, as he tasted again the bitter liquid, that on the hand that clung to the chair, one finger was missing. He drank deeply, and the scream faded away to nothing.

"You will bring the death of Harry Potter."

And this time Draco's mind stirred to true wakefulness from its torpor, and wild delight surged through his soul.

"My Lord's will be done," the little figure said. "When the time is right."

* * *

Harry kissed Hermione lightly on the forehead, then leapt to his feet and spun his friend round the room in a wild dance. 

"Fantastic!" he yelled. "That..." he let go of her, and jumped up on to the bed, leaping up and down, "...was..." Harry dived across the space between one bed and the next, landed on it, rolled down and leapt out, landing on his feet again, "... fantastic!" He ran to the window, flinging it wide open, and shouting out of it at the top of his voice. "HERMIONE GRANGER IS A GENIUS!"

He spun round. "If you weren't like the sister my parents never got the chance to give me, I could _kiss_ you, 'Mione!"

"You... er..." Hermione backed away a bit, totally wrong-footed. "You just did," was about the only thing she could manage. Harry looked surprised for a moment, and then shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, there you are then," he remarked, beaming at her. "Told you. Now, now we've got that out of the way, I wonder if you could take a look at my Transfiguration homework..." he slapped a hand to his cheek. "We're still missing that class."

"Harry..." Hermione croaked. "Are you sure... are you sure you're all right?"

He couldn't have misunderstood me, could he? Don't be ridiculous.

"Fine, Hermione," Harry grinned- and looked it. "I just wish Ron and Gin were here." His face fell a little. "Still, we're doing this for them as well. I think I'll see if I can get that passage to the Three Broomsticks opened up again- it's time the DA had a bit of a social evening- only Butterbeer," he added, with a wry chuckle. "That filthy Firewhisky Wood brought in made my head feel like Little Tommy had been having a disco in it or something."

"Harry, you do realise...?" she attempted.

His mind's snapped. Dear God, I've sent him mad.

"What?" Harry lunged over to her- and she flinched back, but he dropped easily into a chair beside her, and gestured for her to sit on the bed. "Tommy crawled away inside my brain for ten years?" His eyes glittered. "Oh yes, Hermione, I got that bit." He gave a savage grin. "I also got what it meant."

"Which... was?" she stared. Harry gave her a queer, proud look.

"You see," he remarked, "You're not the only one with a brain. Tom Riddle lurked inside my head for ten years. He was trapped, on his own, as far as he knew... that was it. And you know what, Hermione? For all his magic, all his power... he couldn't take over my mind." Harry's eyes flashed. "Maybe he could influence things- like you said, he called Quirrell to us somehow... and I wouldn't put it past the scaly little bastard to have put a few nasty ideas in Dudley's head over the years- just subconsciously, for both of them... but he _couldn't_ take possession. Not with all his mind." Harry stood up.

"He's had his chance, Hermione." he said, a grim determination entering into his words. "Maybe I still don't know how to fight the pain- but now that I know where it's coming from, we'll find a way... but Voldemort had his chance for a quick victory, and you know what?" He turned round, and, scruffy, untidy as he was, robes askew and tie off-centre, with the light from the window behind him he suddenly looked every inch the saviour of the wizarding world. "Back then I didn't even know he was there. I didn't even know about magic. Back then I was just fighting the world, trying to keep the idea that I was Harry Potter alive against a whole world that seemed to want me not to be. I still held him off. I still beat him, when I was a child and didn't even know how to fight, didn't even know what I was fighting." The Boy-Who-Lived turned, and looked out of the window.

"It's a beautiful day outside, Hermione," he said, the blinding light of revelation having apparently obscured the scudding clouds and squalls of wind and rain from his eyes. "And the next time Voldemort tries to come after me, I'm going to give him the fight of his life."

* * *

I call you to me, I bind you, I summon you out of the darkness into the greater darkness.

He stood in a high place, atop a scree of cracked and broken stone, and gazed down on the twisting ribbon of water below. The night wind tugged at his robes, and he exulted in the darkness, feeling his cry, his command, ripple out through the minds of so many that were bound to his will.

He turned his head, and watched as the pale-haired figure beside him, gaunt after months of exile, drew the sleeve of his robe down over the scorched and blackened tattoo on his arm. Voldemort had touched him.

"Soon they will come, Lucius," the Dark Lord gloated, striding back down the other side of the ridge. "Soon they will come to my side. They have no choice, really," he spoke, his voice a whisper of malice. "None of you have."

"Yes, my Lord," Malfoy stumbled down the slope after him, his usually elegant and stately movements un-co-ordinated, unaccustomed to both the terrain and his own weakened state.

"Ah, how weak these mortals are," Voldemort purred, gleefully, and led the way towards the stone watch-house which gazed out across the mountainside. They would leave this place soon. He could feel Potter's mind against his, tearing at his thoughts. Perhaps the boy would remember. Perhaps this place of waiting would be discovered. It was of no real consequence. Soon, very soon, they would have journeyed on, and, will it or no, Potter would find the Dark Lord soon enough.

The watch-house had been abandoned for many years, a low one-roomed building of stone and slate from the quarries below the High Topps on which it stood, a shelter against the weather for some shepherd of long ago. A ragged curtain had been hung half way across it, cutting off the sleeping quarters of those Death Eaters who journeyed with Voldemort from the rest of the room, where their Dark Lord sat, his mind ever turning to new malice.

"Bellatrix..." Voldemort hissed, waiting. After a moment, her black robes like a shroud, the pale skinned, almost emaciated witch slipped through the curtain. Her eyes glittered in the candlelight, blood red. A trickle of blood flowed from her mouth, and her fingers pulled her robes tighter about her, closing them to conceal her nakedness beneath. Voldemort moved closer. Such things no longer had interest to him. The sadistic perversions of the creature he had sculpted were things of hormones, of the flesh, and that he had cast away long ago. Yet, still Bellatrix fascinated him, the needle-sharp and ecstatic pleasure that burned in her at the pain of others was a joy to him, a child he had planted in the womb of her mind, and nurtured it, brought it to fruition, and loved her cruelty as a parent loves a child. He knew that once, before Azkaban had scarred her face, and the long emptiness drained her eyes of all humanity, she had seen her body and found it beautiful- but how much greater a delight to the Dark Lord was the perfect, predatory beauty of her mind, his work of art, his masterwork of the subtleties and elegancies of agony.

"Is he prepared, my servant?" He questioned. Her eyes slid back to the drapes.

"Body, soul and mind, he is bound to your side, my Lord. I have taught him the pathways of power and pain, and cast him into the abyss. He has seen the empty nothings, the true hollow forms that were his life before this time came upon him," she hissed. "I have offered him death, and have shown him salvation in the denial of death. I have shown him the impotence of light, and shown to him the only greater darkness that can hold back the night of death."

"Bring him to me."

She smiled, and held up her wand. A figure stumbled against the drapes, and a pale, bloodied hand clawed at them. Moving like one possessed- for that was what he had become- a naked male figure stumbled through into the presence of the Dark Lord- and fell to his knees. His body was torn, his skin ragged and bleeding, a dozen curse scars interlaced across his back and chest, and his eyes hollow with terror that had stripped away his sanity forever.

"I have shown him you, my Lord," Bellatrix told him, and, taking Voldemort's hand, led him forward. The Auror they had taken alive from the Ministry, the Auror who had killed Randolphus Lestrange with the Avada Kedavra in his terror of the dark, gazed up into Voldemort's eyes, and the agony and fear in his face was suffused with a dark and appalling hope.

Voldemort laid one hand on the broken creature's head, and bowed his head in blessing.

"Only I can raise you from the darkness," he intoned, his forked tongue flashing over his thin lips. "Only in greater darkness still can you hold back the endlessness of oblivion. Only in me can you survive, for I am mightier than Death." He knelt before the shattered man, and took his right arm in an iron grip, slowly drawing his wand once more and touching it to the flesh.

"Step forever into the night, and draw it about you, take it, consume it, sculpt it to your will," he commanded. "Join with the darkness, and feed off the darkness." He pulled the man to his feet. "Stand, Knight of Walpurgis, and eat the death that gnaws at your life. Do this at my command."

Slowly, the Death Eater nodded his head.

Voldemort's snake-leer spread across his face, his eyes blazing with fearful light.

"So be it," he exulted, and struck his wand-tip once more against the man's arm. "Morsmor incandesca eternalis!"

* * *

Halloween was fast approaching, and two days after it, the first Saturday of November would bring Gryffindor's final Quidditch match of the term, and with it, the team's first confrontation (on the pitch) with Slytherin. After the disaster of the last match, Harry had determined to give this one his all, but was, in truth, less than convinced by the skills of his team. Although he would never admit it in public, the last victory against Ravenclaw had largely been his alone- while Seamus and Clare had performed excellently, and Andrew and Jack shown real promise, something he would never have believed last year, Colin's enthusiasm far exceeded his ability- and Brian Coplesbury, as Keeper, lacked even the enthusiasm. Thus, the morning of the 29th found he and Hermione talking at something of cross-purposes over the breakfast table, amid the chatter of dozens of hungry students.

"I think," she remarked, looking up from her book, "Goyle's doing excellently. If you want my opinion," she added darkly, "He'd have got on a lot better all through school if he hadn't had Malfoy telling him constantly how useless he was and how his only job was to stand around all day looking tough."

"Goyle?" Harry frowned, scratching his head. "Hermione, I know you've got no interest in Quidditch, but Goyle's playing for the other side."

Hermione sighed.

"I was talking..." she groaned. "About the DA."

"Oh, right," Harry nodded. "Still, you're right, Goyle's a good Beater. I'll warn Clare and the others to watch out for him."

"And how's the... other thing coming?" Hermione lowered her voice slightly. The noise surrounding them seemed to have dropped a bit, one of those periodic lulls in the oceanic movement of many overlapping conversations, and she did not wish to be overheard.

Harry glanced at her, and brushed a finger across his scar in understanding.

"Well, as far as I can tell," he told her. "I'm still finding it hard to use the Pensieve again, though, after what happened..." he trailed off, unhappily. Then his face hardened a little. The hopeless moods seemed to last for less and less time these days. He looked up. "The Occlumency's getting easier, though. More instinctive."

"Well," Hermione observed, trying to keep her voice from carrying too far in the silence that now pervaded the hall, "That's good."

Someone dropped a bowl.

"If you can manage to make it... natural," she suggested, "Rather than trying to turn all your emotions off the way you were doing, I'm sure it'd be a better way of defending you against... Ron."

Harry blinked into his cereal. "Last I checked, Ron wasn't trying to take over my mind," he said, and looked up. Hermione's head had turned towards the entrance doors- in the same direction as everyone else, he noticed with a start, and her face had paled. He looked.

A tall, awkward figure had stepped, hesitantly, through the doors, and was hovering uncertain just inside them. He was a little thinner than when Harry had seen him last, and obviously unsettled by all the eyes ranged upon him. The red haired boy looked to and fro like a frightened rabbit.

"RON!" Harry bellowed, swinging his legs over the bench and charging towards his friend. Ron jumped, and took half a pace back. "Welcome back!" Harry grabbed him by the hand, towing him down the hall. "Come and sit down," he pushed the boy into his seat- although not before Hermione had enfolded Ron in a warm hug, and sat down next to him. Only then did he glance back at the open doorway. No other figure stood there. Harry swallowed the bitter disappointment in his heart, and turned back, determined to enjoy the real happiness he felt to see Ron back at Hogwarts again.

"How are you?" he asked. Ron, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of toast, nodded.

"All right," he said. "Sorry it's been so long," he fidgeted, a little uncomfortably. "Mum and Dad... you know."

"I know." Harry nodded, and didn't shy away from Ron's gaze. The redhead gave a slightly wan, but happy smile.

"It's good to see the place again," he commented. "How've you two been?"

"We've had our ups and downs," Harry told him, "Although I wasn't the one who decided to go housebreaking with Dobby." He nodded meaningfully at Hermione. "That was little miss Perfect here." Hermione stamped her foot.

"I never would have believed," she fumed, "That Harry could get himself into more trouble _without_ you around than with you here, but I was beginning to wonder."

Ron grinned.

"Well, I'll see what I can do about that."

"Don't you dare, Ron Weasley," she flushed. "Don't you dare..."

The boy laughed- a little rustily, Harry thought, as if for the first time in some long while.

"Just get me something to eat, will you? We stayed in the Hog's Head last night, and I _couldn't_ eat their breakfast," Ron grimaced. "There's a time and a place for goat's cheese."

A shiver had gone down Harry's spine. The moment Ron had said 'we', even though he knew how many different things that might mean, his every sense had tuned itself to a new level of awareness. He took his glasses off, and cleaned them, squinting his eyes tightly. After he felt more himself, he set them back on his nose- and saw Ron looking at him. The taller boy put his hand on Harry's upper arm.

"She said she's..." he looked confused. "Well, she said it was where birds go, and you'd know what she meant," Ron said, and rolled his eyes. "Harry..." he added, as, almost without further command from his brain, the Boy-Who-Lived found himself standing up. "She said she'd understand if you didn't want to go and see her."

Harry strode quickly towards the door. Hermione looked after him for a moment, then looked back at Ron, then back again, conflicted emotions flickering on her face. Then, Harry left the room, heading out through the Entrance Hall at a trot, and, with a faint shake of her shoulders, she turned herself back to Ron.

"Just this once more, I suppose you can copy- but do _not_ drink coffee when you're reading my notes, understood?"

Ron chuckled again.

"Understood." He smiled at her. "I've missed you both, you know."

* * *

Harry ran down the path to the lake. He didn't know what to think- even what to feel. He could hardly bear to hope- to hope that she might not hate him- but she'd asked him to see her- no, she'd told him he could if he wanted to, she'd left the choice up to him- and what would he find- there had been so much taken away from her- how could she forgive him? He skidded to a halt in the clearing, and began to pick his way along the old path to Helena's nest. Nearly a month since they'd last walked this way. Now he could see the roof of the nest, standing on the headland. His pace slowed still further, and a lump grew in his throat. Ginny was there, within those walls. He forced his pace on, fighting his own pulse. He began the last stretch, was walking round the side of the building, deliberately not looking through the unglazed window frame- was standing in the doorway. 

Ginny Weasley sat in one corner, Harry's photograph album open on her knee- he'd forgotten it, no, he hadn't forgotten, but hadn't had the heart to come to the nest even for that one thing since the hammer blow had fallen on her. A long brown travelling cloak hung from her shoulders to the ground, and beneath it her clothes were also dark. Her face, too, seemed thinner than he had remembered it, and her eyes seemed sad beneath her long hair, but there was life in them again. He swayed against the doorframe. Ginny- and it was Ginny, not the empty shape in grief's cloak that he had mourned for those past weeks, heard the slight movement and looked up to him, her eyes flickering in- fear?

"Hello, Harry," she said, in a very quiet voice. "Would you... would you come in?"

He came inside, trying to disguise the unsteadiness of his feet, and sat down, about midway between her and the door, not that that was much great distance in the small building. They looked at one another for a long time, each listening to the other breathe.

"Ginny... I..." Harry looked away first. "I'm so sorry, Gin. For all of it. That blasted Pensieve, for... for everything that happened."

"You're sorry?" Ginny stared at him, surprise forcing her voice louder, to nearer its usual volume. She quietened herself again. "Harry, you haven't done anything you have to apologise for." She looked out of the window. "I blamed you."

He'd known, of course. After all, he blamed himself, and he'd read the anger in her eyes. Of course, he'd known... but still, it was like a sword of ice in his heart.

"I blamed you," Ginny repeated. "I blamed you because you were there, you were alive, you were human... you were everything Voldemort isn't, and you were someone I could see as a person. You were the only one holding me back from it, the one who wouldn't let me just throw myself away into the dark where no one could find me, like I wanted... and I hated you for it." She looked back at him. "I don't know... I don't know if you can ever forgive me for that, Harry, or how long it'll take... but... even if you can't..." She stopped. Tears were coming back into her dark eyes.

Harry moved without thought. He half stepped to his feet, and sat down again next to her. She flinched slightly, as he held out a hand- and then their arms folded about one another and they clung together like one being.

"If... it'll keep you out of the dark," he sobbed, the world swimming before his eyes, "You can hate me for a million years, but I won't let you go, Ginny. Not ever."

"You can't run away into the dark, anyway" Ginny told him through her tears, her breath catching in her throat again and again. "Not really. You can't hide from anything that way. At the end of it, the only things you're really afraid of are the things you take with you."

* * *

The nights were drawing in as October crept to its close, and- mindful of the fears that missing students might bring out in their teachers- Harry and Ginny walked side by side back to the doors of the school. They spoke seldom, but the silence between them was not uncomfortable. For a long time, in the morning and the afternoon that followed it unheeded, they had simply held one another, their emotions speaking to one another in tones too deep for words. Then, haltingly at first, they had begun to talk of what had happened to each since their paths had separated that night in London. 

Ginny had listened, occasionally questioning, her face growing shrewd and thoughtful while he told her Dumbledore's tale. Her eyes had widened when Harry had told her what Hermione had learned.

"And ever since then," she'd murmured- "Especially since he got his body back, he's been trying to kill you."

"He's not got a choice, Ginny," Harry had told her grimly. "His mind's tied to mine, just the same way mine's linked to his... and even if he can bear to touch me with his body now, after he took my blood... he feels the same pain I do." She reached up a hand to his scar, then dropped it to her side. "It's destroying both of us. He has to kill me, even obliterate that part of him he left behind in me, before it drives us both insane."

Now, their tales told, they returned together. In what sense of 'together', Harry did not question- neither had spoken of romance, and- for now, what lay before them was enough. To see his dear friend alive again in her eyes, to hear life and emotion in her words, that was joy enough.

"Well well, what have we got here?" They hadn't been paying attention to the road. The school lay before them, and, leaning against one of the columns supporting the stone portico over the doors, a familiar blonde figure lounged. "Take a look at this, Crabbe?" he added to his remaining bodyguard. "Professor Snape asked me to come and find you, Potter," Malfoy drawled. "For some reason he likes you to bother to turn up to classes. Can't think why... but now I think we all see what you've been up to, don't we?"

Harry's lips whitened. He vaguely wondered how many times he was going to have to bounce Malfoy off various hard surfaces before the wretched child would _shut up._

"Just got your pet Weasel back again, have you?" Draco purred, getting to his feet, and sneering insultingly down at the two of them from the height of the steps.

Harry growled, and drew his wand in a moment. Malfoy raised a finger.

"I wouldn't, Potter. Not after last time," his face darkened for a moment, before the same smile spread back across it. "That old fool can't shield you for ever, scarhead. You're just going to have to learn to control your temper a bit," Draco sneered. "I'm sure Weasel's Hired Whore there can distract you- you never know, she might have a talent for--"

A sharp _CRACK_ tore through the air, and a flash of power moving past him nearly knocked Harry to his feet. Malfoy vanished in an instant- and Crabbe, standing next to his master, gulped, staring down at the small white ferret which shrank against the column, keening in fright.

Ginny stepped past him and started up the steps, her mouth thin-lipped with irritation.

"Harry didn't lift a finger against you," she remarked to the ferret, which squeaked in fear and tried to scramble away into the bushes. "Accio ferret!" She called out, and Malfoy was plucked off his four feet as he ran. "Wingardium Leviosa," she added, not wanting to touch the animal, and the ferret bobbed helplessly in the air in front of her. She leant forward, keeping her nose just out of range of its wildly flailing claws. "A word, Draco," she told him, in a steady voice. "If you ever, just once, call me _anything_ but 'Miss Weasley', or, if you're feeling particularly friendly, which I doubt, 'Virginia'... you will regret it. Refer to me the way you just did again, just once more, and I will fillet you." She gave the creature a quick, sunny smile. "Understood?"

Malfoy squeaked. He didn't really have that much of an option.

Ginny beamed at him. "Good little ferret." Then, a mischievous smile flickering across her face, she turned back to Harry.

"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry," she said, eyes alight with villainy, "I never brought you any sort of present back." She made a swishing gesture with her wand, and the ferret began to float down towards him, writhing and turning in the air in panic. "Will this do? For Hedwig. She eats rodents, doesn't she?"

Harry stared at her, trying to keep a straight face with some difficulty. He caught her eye, and felt the laughter beginning to surge up through his throat. Quickly, while he still could, he answered.

"Um... thanks, but maybe not this time, Gin. That one looks a bit rancid to me... inbred, by the look of it. It might give her an upset stomach." He paused, and looked the frantically squealing Draco in the eye. "We'd have to cut it up very small," he observed. The ferret's jaw dropped, silently.

Ginny shrugged.

"Oh well." She flicked her wand in a banishing charm, and Malfoy sailed away through the air, Crabbe frantically dashing after the arc of the ferret's flight, hands cupped in front of him. She threaded her wand through her belt, and grinned, taking Harry's hand in hers as they stepped through into the Entrance Hall. In the distance, Crabbe, not looking where he was going, ran into a tree, and Draco came to rest somewhere in its upper branches.

Ginny looked back, then faced Harry once again. "I'm back."

* * *

**AriKitten: **Well, he hasn't really been just over Harry's nose since the beginning of the first year- just tied to it. Still, Dumbledore did have the baby- and Voldemort's spirit- in his hands in Chapter One of "The Philosopher's Stone". And, if you're wondering what would have happened if D-dore (like the abbreviation, by the way) had stepped wildly out of character and smashed baby Harry's skull open, then I suspect that with Voldy already so weakened, _that _probably would have finished the Dark Lord once and for all. It's probably a good thing Dumbledore didn't know. 

Oh, and you mentioned the red-headed league? Good, that means I got the pacing about right for their absence. ;-) Ron'll be getting a bit more attention next chapter.

**RuffledFeathers: **I hope the clarification Hermione gives at the start of this one's made it a bit clearer- basically, Voldemort's (immortal, thanks to his spells) spirit got pulled into Harry's mind and parked their for a decade when the Avada Kedavra fed back and destroyed him. His essence became pure, unfocused magic, and it was that 'earthing' into Harry's brain that caused the scar on his head.

**Hugh Lapham:** Voldemort's going to be a little more difficult to get rid of than that, but that's the sort of approach the gang are going to try, yes- when they think of it.

**CiA1:** I intend to :-)

**Wolf's scream:** Yes, I was thinking of an EMP effect myself. The whitespace seems to happen whenever I insert something into existing text in document editor- I'll be doing a bit of error weeding next week, so I'll go back and clean the earlier chapters then.

**Traveller:** No, Voldemort would probably much rather find a safe way to extract the pieces of his mind that are still left in Harry... but he doesn't have that option, and he's not willing to be patient with having Harry Potter, whose mind is utterly antithetical to his, tied to his soul. He'd gnaw his own leg- or, in this case, pieces of his own mind- off to get free, because the link's slowly driving him insane. More insane.

**Qazok:** Glad you like the idea- I hope Harry's reaction to it fits- I thought it would make a change and be a little unexpected, whilst still making sense.

**QueenY C:** I can't actually remember where the idea came from- I think just from the feeling that there was something odd about Voldemort, allegedly running away from Godric's Hollow, and then next showing up as a near-bodiless wraith. Also, I felt that Harry meeting Quirrell on the day of the Gringotts' break in seemed... suspicious. It all sort of developed from there.


	27. Lion over Serpent

**Chapter Twenty-seven:** Lion over Serpent

"The darkness gathers."

There was no image, no scene of devastation or carnage at Voldemort's hand. Pure, ink black dark curled around his vision.

"I am the only reality."

This way and that he turned, but everyway the shadow pressed in upon him.

"Ere the old year dies, you shall see it, Harry."

Harry flung back his head, gazing upwards to sun or stars- but nothing shone there.

"I... will... see... light..." He snarled, a deep magic flowing through him.

"No light, no light, no light," the high, cold voice chanted. "Light is transient, mortal and waning from the moment of its birth. Flames burn away, flames consume. That is the folly of life, my soul-brother. There is no escape from the darkness in light, merely deception, waiting. Only the greater darkness can stand against the shadow."

"I will... have... light."

"Do not think to set your will against mine..." a cold chuckle echoed through the dark. Harry was bound, motionless. As if by a trick of his eyes against the blackness, he made out twin points of glittering venom, red eyes in the darkness. "Your power waxes to my design. We are one, and our one voice is my voice as it must always be. The inexorable final step of our dance together nears, Harry." The eyes gleamed in the darkness, moving ever closer.

"I... I will fight you..."

"You cannot fight me, Harry," the voice purred, and a loving hand invisibly caressed his forehead. "I made you, formed you in my thoughts, sculpted you as my resurrector. You are but a part of my greater darkness, and now your purpose nears its end. Lie down to sleep, Harry. Rest... rest... rest..."

* * *

"Right," Ron stood up and paced back and forth, facing the team. "Here's the plan. We kill 'em. We have their guts, we slaughter them, we butcher the dogs... we do them in. Everyone clear on that?"

The team looked at each other. Harry- rather relieved, if he was honest, not to be playing a second game as team captain, raised his eyebrows and looked at his skipper.

"Whatever happened to 'let's have a good, clean game'?" he asked. Ron snorted, and hefted his broom menacingly.

"That's for Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff," he told Harry. "When we play Slytherin, it's no quarter given."

"Besides, this way's more fun," Ginny remarked from the Boy-Who-Lived's other side. He pulled a face, and slipped an arm around her waist, letting her rest comfortably against his side. "All right now?" she murmured. Harry gave a fractional nod, and squeezed her slightly. He'd told his three friends about the dream over breakfast. Ron had snorted, dismissing it as "empty threats" with a haste that gave the lie to his reaction. After the horrific aftermath of Harry's last nightmare, he'd been sorely tempted to keep this one from his friends altogether- but had decided against that. He owed them more than that. Still, it was plain that, for both Ron and Ginny, any stirring of the Dark Lord was a source of particular dread.

Harry forcibly pulled the train of thought back, out of his way. He would speak to Dumbledore about the dream tomorrow. There hadn't been anything specific in it, after all, nothing useful. For now, he was fiercely determined to enjoy having his friends at his side once more.

Ron took one last look round the changing room.

"Well, if you all do half as well as we did against Hufflepuff," he shrugged, "I'll be bloody proud of you. Come on. Let's do it."

Harry and Ginny formed up side by side behind him as the Captain led his team back out on to the pitch.

"And you," the red-haired girl remarked severely to Harry, "Watch out for Bludgers. Follow Clare's lead." She looked back at the other two Chasers over her shoulder. "I'd say Seamus as well, but the boy's about as mad as you are. Don't break anything important." She paused. "By which I mean the Quaffle."

"Ginny, I've watched you play, I've seen how Chasing works, " he protested, in vain.

"Harry," she patted him on the cheek, "When you watch me fly, it's not my tactics you're memorising."

"You have very nice tactics, Gin." He told her blandly, looking at her with a straight face.

Ginny met his eyes, her own face determinedly calm. They stared each other out for a long moment. Finally, with a sound somewhere between a snort and a giggle, she looked away.

Ron, a few paces ahead, made a sound a little like a kettle boiling.

"Stop making the Keeper sick," the Keeper protested. "And keep it down," he added, a grin coming over his face to match his sister's own for evil. "I want to see Malfoy's face when Wood calls out the teams."

Sure enough, Oliver had got to his feet in the commentary box. As had become his custom, he raised his crutch and swung it around his head, eliciting a roar of approval from the crowd, and a hasty ducking of the head from Professor McGonagall next to him- and Padma Patil on his other side, who was planning to take over as commentator when Wood returned to his own Quidditch team in the spring.

Harry and Ginny, reminded by Ron's comment, turned their heads in unison to regard the Slytherin team and its Seeker. Draco, who had been scowling malevolently at Ginny, found himself rather unsettled when first Harry and Ginny, and then the whole Gryffindor team, stared at him with eagerly anticipative smiles on their faces.

"Your attention, ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards, house-elves, centaurs--" Firenze was not actually present at the game, but Oliver was apparently in showmanlike mood, "-- goblins, visiting Amoeba Vendettas, or Amoebas Vendetta, whichever grammar you prefer, and all other assorted humans and/or teachers- Ow, sorry, Professor, couldn't resist," he added. "I give you, Gryffindor!" A cheer went up. The Slytherins, whose own entry on to the pitch had been much less warmly acclaimed, looked daggers across the grass at their opponents.

"A very warm welcome back to Captain Ronald Weasley," Oliver boomed, "Whose touch as Keeper, and inspired grasp of game strategy is bound to be welcomed by the team in what promises to be a tough game, and his team, Beaters Jack Sloper and Andrew Kirke, whose skills I've seen well and truly blossom over the last two games and the many practice sessions I've had the privilege of sitting in on--" Jack and Andrew looked mildly star struck. Clare cuffed Jack lightly around the skull.

"Focus, Sloper," she sighed.

Harry and Ginny found their eyes meeting again, and each stifled a snigger.

"-- and again a change to the winning line-up, as Seamus Finnegan and Clare Jacques- splendid players, both of them, are joined as Chasers by none other than star Seeker Harry Potter."

The cheers from the crowd dropped away, to be replaced by an epidemic of whispering and confusion. Ginny swallowed a little nervously.

Harry gave Ginny's arm a squeeze. "We made Ron promise this, didn't we?"

She returned his look a little wildly.

"Besides," Harry grinned. "Just look at Malfoy's face when the penny drops..."

"Whose position as Seeker in this match, as part of a long standing agreement," Wood announced to the crowd, "Will be taken by the excellent and talented relative newcomer, Ginny Weasley!"

The Gryffindor team were not disappointed. The Slytherins were muttering amongst themselves, most apparently unsure of whether to be relieved that Harry would not be in his usual position, or uncertain of Ginny- and Draco's mouth appeared to have lost the ability to close, his eyes fixed on his new opposite number with a good deal of alarm flickering across them.

"Oh," Ginny remarked, just audibly enough for Malfoy to hear across the grass, a broad feral grin playing across her features, "I'm looking forward to this."

* * *

"Bear left, Seamus!" Ron's voice rang out above the pitch as the game, after nearly an hour's play which had, for the most part, gone Gryffindor's way, swung back down towards his end of the field. "Get that Quaffle _low_," he yelled, as Adrian Pucey, Slytherin's least unskilled Chaser, as Lee Jordan had once put it, set up for another shot on the Gryffindor goal hoops. Seamus led Harry in a tight angled curve round the north end of the pitch, arcing up between Pucey and the goal to snatch the Quaffle. As Warrington and Pucey homed in on the Irish Chaser, Beater Grommet batted a Bludger straight at the boy. Seamus twisted sideways, hurling the Quaffle over the heads of the Slytherin trap. The third Slytherin Chaser, Edgar Flint, younger brother of Marcus, who had finally succeeded in graduating the previous year, lunged for the ball, but fell back clutching his arm as Andrew Kirke knocked the Bludger fired at Seamus back and into him.

Harry, narrowly avoiding the Bludger himself, seized the ball out of the air and flattened out, barrelling low over the pitch, tilting and flying upside down for a moment. Far above, Ginny and Malfoy were hounding one another. His friend had seen the Snitch once, early in the game, and come very close. He caught himself scanning the pitch for the ball himself, and snatched his attention back to his current game. The Slytherins were far behind, but Clare, up by the opponent's goal hoops as usual, was far ahead, and he was on his own. He pulled the Firebolt up sharply, as Goyle flew under him, knocking a Bludger straight up towards him. Harry spun round, and caught a proud grin on the other boy's face.

Fair enough; good move.

He twisted and turned to avoid the Bludger- losing his lead over the other Slytherins all the time. Now they were swarming round him- but Kirke and Sloper were zigzagging amongst them, and he passed abruptly to Seamus, moments before Pucey tackled him. Harry slipped, sliding over his broom, and looped the loop. Now Seamus was in trouble, and the ball flew back to Harry. He struggled with it, trying to apply his Seeker's skills to Chasing.

Simple. When you're Seeking, you're constantly trying to find and get through to that bit of space where the Snitch is, and where it's going. When you're Chasing, it's about finding the one bit of space where no one else is in your way.

Harry whirled his broom in a circle, then flew out of the tangled mess of players at top speed- straight up.

"You've got it wrong, Potter!" Malfoy jeered at him, zooming in close. "The game's down there!"

Harry forbore to comment. The scrimmage of players- and Bludgers, was heading fast up towards him now, led by a manically grinning Seamus who clearly knew exactly what was on Harry's mind. Harry accelerated towards Malfoy who- too late, realised his intention. He started to move back- and Ginny whipped across his field of vision, heading directly for an entirely fictional Snitch. Distracted for a moment, Malfoy held his course a fraction too long, and was forced to roll violently round on his broom to avoid being caught in the chaos that followed in Harry's wake. Harry waited until it was nearly on him, and then levelled out, pouring the maximum speed he could into his Firebolt. Ginny drew alongside.

"What's wrong?" the girl asked with a gleeful look, taking in Harry's slightly glazed expression, "Finding real work a bit too much for you in your old age?"

"Very funny," Harry called, glancing back at the players following him. Ginny, on an old broom, and in grave danger of being overtaken, followed his look. "So, why haven't you caught the Snitch yet?" Harry teased. "Having too much fun baiting Malfoy?"

Ginny smirked at him.

"I'm just enjoying the rest, Potter," she told him. "Speaking of which, haven't you got goals to score? Chasers can't sit around all game doing nothing like we Seekers get away with," she teased. "Speaking of whi--"

This time, Harry didn't bother to be alarmed. In fact, he managed to display enough sang-froid to barely glance at Ginny's scythe-like flight path after the Snitch as he picked up speed again, circling down towards the Slytherin goal hoops. Barely half a dozen times. He darted sideways to avoid a Bludger- that was a skill he still needed, and held up three fingers to Clare. She gave a short nod, and darted back away from the goal hoops. This had been Ron's strategy for just such an occasion. Harry watched Miles Bletchley's face intently, to see which way he'd jump.

Bletchley- as Harry bore down on the goal hoops- assumed that Harry was the greater threat, and moved to intersect him- and Harry passed quickly to Clare, who scored through the left-hand hoop.

He flew back to the centre of the pitch, as Wood jubilantly trumpeted Gryffindor's advancing lead- then broke off his commentary abruptly. Two blurs, one red and gold, one silver and green, darted flashed past Harry and Clare, and they pulled up sharply, Harry watching delightedly as Ginny led Malfoy round the field.

The Slytherin boy's broom was far superior to Ginny's Comet- and, if Harry were honest with himself, which he had no particular desire to be where Draco was concerned, their flying skills were about equal, but Ginny's instinctive grasp of the game- and, more importantly, the 'mind' of the Snitch was telling against Malfoy. Draco could chase the little golden ball, but Ginny seemed able to outfox Seeker and ball at every turn, hounding the Golden Snitch mercilessly, finally seeming to almost conspire with the ball to send Malfoy wildly overshooting his target, then spinning round in a perfect circle over Goyle's head and flying up high to snatch the little ball out of the air while Malfoy was still struggling to correct.

At the far end of the pitch, even Oliver's ebullient commentary was momentarily eclipsed by Ron's whoop of delight.

Malfoy pulled up short, staring in blank fury at Ginny as Harry flew up to congratulate her. The Boy-Who-Lived clapped an arm on to Ginny's shoulder proudly, and gave Malfoy one defiant, proud look, before turning his attention to his friend, the gleeful look in her eyes seeming- for the moment- to wash away the strain on her features.

He smiled at her, and started to speak- and then nearly toppled from his broom as a flash of pain rippled through his scar.

Kill the spare.

"I..." Harry wavered, high above the pitch, and Ginny's hand seized the front of his robes. Their team-mates were flying up to meet them now, and he shook himself, regaining his balance. As soon as it had come, the pain was gone, and Malfoy was flying away off the pitch, his face twisted with disgust. "I'm all right, Gin," he said quietly.

"All right, Harry?" Ginny said in a loud voice, meant for the concerned glances of the rest of his team. "I know I'm good, but there's no need to faint!"

"What happened?" she hissed to him quietly.

"Tell you later," Harry muttered.

* * *

Draco Malfoy was in a towering fury.

"They can't do this to me..." he seethed, storming back into the Slytherin dungeons at the head of the team. Being beaten by Potter was bad enough, but being beaten... being beaten by that carrot haired penniless slattern while Potter sat back on his broom drooling over her... "I'll see you suffer for this, Potter," he hissed- and something seemed to rise in his mind. Malfoy shook his head violently. The headaches had been coming more and more lately. The rest of his team hung back as they entered the Common Room. He looked around, saw Crabbe sitting uselessly in the corner, and snarled at him. That made a thought drift into his mind, and he rounded abruptly on Goyle. If he could just find something to get really, honestly off his chest, that might make it easier to think more clearly, to work out what he was going to do to Potter.

"And _you_," Malfoy sneered. "Where the hell were you?"

"I was... playing Quidditch," Goyle said, in his usual slow voice. Malfoy eyed him suspiciously. Was the cretin being even more stupid than usual- or _surely_ he wasn't mocking him?

"I know that, idiot!" Malfoy stormed over to the Prefect's office inset in the corner of the room, and fished in his pockets for the key, his headache worsening. "What did I tell you before the game? Get Weasley! What kind of Beater are you, Goyle?"

"But the Chasers had the Quaffle..."

"Damn the stinking Quaffle!" Malfoy pushed the door open. "You listen to me, Goyle. Get this straight- you're on the Quidditch team for one reason and one reason only- because you can fly a broom, unlike this other congenital moron," he gestured at Crabbe, "And to deal with Potter for me- or anyone else I tell you to deal with."

"But... the game..." Goyle rumbled slowly.

"Don't contradict me!" Malfoy stormed back towards him. He needed a nice cup of hot tea to soothe his mind... craved it. "You've made a complete arse of yourself this term- running away when Potter attacked me, joining this stupid Defence group of his- I suppose the sexless wonder over there put you up to that?" he gestured angrily across the Common Room, to where Blaise was sitting enduring a game of chess with Theodore Nott. She looked up and gave him an insulting little wave, which only added to his fury. "And I tell you to do one simple, simple thing... and you let me down again! You had the perfect opportunity. Smash a Bludger into that vicious little ginger cow's nose and we'll see how much Potter moons over her then... and what do you do? You foul it up!" He turned, marching back to the office. "You're a moron, Goyle. A nothing. Don't get ideas of your own... understand it. You're nothing, nothing without me. Now get out of my sight!" Draco stormed through the door and slammed it behind him, shaking it in its frame.

"What did you do now?" Blaise asked innocently. "Steal his ice-cream?"

* * *

Harry found Ron sitting in the Owlery playing with Pigwidgeon, throwing small pieces of folded paper through the air for the owl to catch and savage. 

"They're about to start celebrating up there," he remarked to Ron, sitting down next to him quietly. "Are you OK?" His friend seemed... distant, and drawn. He'd slipped off somewhere after the Quidditch game, rather to Hermione's annoyance. Harry, remembering the last game against Ravenclaw and after, had been in two minds about whether it was best to follow him or leave him in peace, but had eventually given in to Hermione's urgings, and gone looking for the missing Captain.

Ron scratched irritably at his cheek.

"I dunno..." he thought, then he looked at Harry. "Yeah. Do you remember back when we were in the first year? That mirror thing you found."

"I remember." Harry frowned. It wasn't that happy a memory, really, all things considered. Still, the mirror had helped him find the Philosopher's Stone.

"We've played really well this year so far," Ron said, a little sadly. "I think we might be in for a chance at the House Cup."

"I hope so," Harry tried to smile encouragingly at him. Ron looked back.

"Remember, in the mirror? One of my dreams was to be Quidditch Captain, to win the House Cup, all that kind of thing." He looked thoughtfully at Harry. "You just wanted your family round you. I just... well, I suppose I just wish I'd thought a bit more about the important things."

Harry put a hand on his shoulder.

"Come on, Ron... that was a long time ago. People change."

"Maybe, it's just that it seems like sometimes you..." Ron broke off, looking at Harry. "No, forget it. I'm just talking nonsense." He grinned. "What else is new?" Then another thought struck him, and he scrambled to his feet. "Come on, we'd better get back. If I let Oliver get the team drunk again, Hermione'll slaughter both of us."

They hurried out of the Owlery and along the corridors.

"I don't see why she'd do anything to me," Harry complained. "You're the team Captain."

"Yeah, and it's your job to keep me in order," Ron told him.

"Funny, I thought that was Hermione's job." Harry mused with a sly grin, and received a dark look for his pains.

"I don't know why you're laughing," Ron remarked. "Ginny's the one everyone'll be pouring drinks for to celebrate her getting the Snitch."

Harry's jaw dropped slightly as they reached Gryffindor Tower, and approached the portrait hole.

"Why?" he asked, a little nervously. "What's she likely to do?"

"I don't have the faintest idea," Ron told him. "You think Mum would let Ginny get drunk? But she is Ginny. I reckon we should hide anything breakable."

"What, like Scotland, you mean?"

* * *

Fortunately for the continued existence of time and space as we know them, Ginny Weasley was sitting in a corner of the Common Room idly transfiguring Ron's chess pieces into small wooden mice when the dynamic duo arrived. On the opposite side of the room, Oliver Wood, watched by a stern-looking Hermione, was presiding over a- relatively- sober celebration. 

"Evening Gin," Harry dropped into a seat next to her, exchanging a slightly relieved glance with Ron, who hurriedly gathered up his remaining chessmen. One of the wooden mice bit him.

"Ow... get off..." he flapped his finger about, and the carved mouse dropped from it, shimmering back into its real form as it dropped. He turned an irritated glare on his sister, who smiled back at him sunnily.

"Harry, I hope you know what you're getting in to," Ron remarked, more-or-less good humouredly.

Harry winced, giving Ron an annoyed look. The boy _knew_ Harry and his sister's supposed romance was rather nebulous at the moment. The last thing they needed was other people pushing the topic forward before they were ready to deal with it. He sighed, and, glancing back at Ginny, was unsure whether to be relieved or concerned to see the same irritable look in her eye. She stood up.

"Coming for a drink, Harry?" Harry looked dubious. Ginny gave a small half-smile.

"Butterbeer, Harry. I don't know if it was what you said to Wood last time, or whatever Hermione threatened to do to him, but it's quite safe." She pulled him to his feet. "You won't get drunk and wander off to molest young Draco again, I promise you."

Harry spluttered incoherently, and followed Ginny across the room, and Ron sat down in their seat, slowly sorting through the chess pieces and cancelling any remaining incantations.

"For your information, Virginia," Harry told her, in as severe a tone as he could manage, as they leant against the doorframe to the girls' staircase and watched the party, "What happened with Draco was..."

"Oh, don't worry about it, Harry," Ginny patted him on the cheek. She held up her mug of Butterbeer. "Dad says it was called Free Gloves in the Sixties, or something like that." She took a swig of Butterbeer. "Sounds good to me."

Harry's jaw dropped.

"I will not be beaten," he remarked, looking at a point somewhere over her left ear. "I'll make you turn red and squeak before this evening's out, you can bet on it."

"Oh, promises, promises." Ginny regarded him through her eyelashes. Harry flushed scarlet, and half-choked on his Butterbeer. "Oh dear," She shook her head and chuckled. "To think we were glaring at Ron for making remarks about..." she trailed off in realisation, a slightly panicked look crossing her face, "Um... well, about the, position, of... well, you and me... and..."

Harry looked at her, and, having sufficiently recovered his composure, wreaked deadly revenge in a deadpan tone with a sober look into his young friend's- no, his girlfriend's- eyes.

"I don't think we'll want Ron's help with positions, will we, dear?"

Ginny squeaked.

* * *

The lack of television reception at Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry occasionally annoyed Professor Aloysius Milner. Not that he liked to watch it- on the few occasions he'd sat down to watch programmes with the Muggleborn members of his university faculty, or with some of the Muggle friends he'd had in the past, he'd found the programmes available intensely and paralysingly dull, boring, and generally tedious to boot, but on the one hand, a television made a useful small table on which to put things that one wished to lose for later, and on the other, reading through the television schedules and aggressively disagreeing with the reviewers' conclusions on programmes that he hadn't seen and doubted they had watched either was always a good way of working off one's excess negative emotions. Milner had occasionally joked that it was either that, or become a Death Eater. He had a tendency to make this joke to Muggles, which had a tendency not to work terribly well, for fairly evident reasons.

He supposed, as he dropped his wand into an empty flowerpot, threw his jacket over the bracket of an unlit oil lamp, and lay down on the carpet in the cramped sitting room of his quarters, that one could always buy a Radio Times anyway, just for the purpose of disagreeing with it, but somehow, without even the possibility of television, that struck him as a slightly eccentric thing to do.

Still, he found himself at a loose end. There was always the marking of students' work, of course... but, on the other hand, he'd heard a particularly good excuse from a student the other day, and was curious to see if he could pass it back to the same class as a reason for not having marked their work without the originator of the excuse noticing. So, a more profitable use of his time, then... He got up, and opened a slim redwood case bearing the engraved initials F.L., which rested in a small alcove just inside the door. Inside, was a curious device which rather resembled an exploded diagram of a wand. Three wooden prongs- of ash, rowan, and oak, each ten inches in length, were evenly spaced around the circumference of a series of concentric brass rings, the diameter of which was around three inches in turn. Set inside these, fixed in position by another, smaller series of rings, at a distance roughly half way between the tube's outer surface and its core, and again equidistant from each other, but pivoted so that the whole could revolve relative to the outer circle of prongs, where three wand cores- a phoenix feather, a strand of unicorn hair, and an extruded dragon scale.

Milner held the delicate apparatus carefully in one hand, and moved it gently through the air, a tender expression on his face, watching as the inner cores revolved, and a small helix of multi-coloured sparks- gold from the feather, silver from the hair, and onyx from the scale, began to form at the device's empty core.

All normal. Almost. Rather high readings, of course- and he'd have been lying if he said he could analyse it from memory without the proper interpretation equipment- but the usual Hogwarts pattern. Almost.

Milner sat back in his armchair, and peered into the helix. Somewhere, something was askew, a light touch of magic that was wrong, outside the normal flow of events.

"Houston," he remarked, a dangerous and implacable light coming into his eyes, "We have a problem. It's back. "

* * *

They were still standing by the staircase when Harry looked back, in response to a soft noise of compassion from Ginny. Ron, sitting alone in Ginny's old place by the window, had bowed his head, and, trying to conceal himself from the room, was rubbing fiercely at his eyes with one hand. Harry started back towards him, but Ginny caught his arm.

"Wait. Not this time." As he watched, Hermione detached herself from a conversation with Colin and went over to the window, leaning forward and speaking to Ron. The boy's head lifted sharply, and he said something that made the girl move back half a pace, before Ron's head dropped forward again. Hermione sat next to him, and put an arm around his shoulders.

Harry turned his gaze back to Ginny. The diminutive redhead's face was pale, and her eyes glistened a little. She leant against him slightly.

"Let's go up to the turret," Ginny suggested, in a slightly unsteady voice. "I think I need some air."

Harry nodded, and they made their way from the room, the arm around her waist- mostly- for support. They climbed the boys' staircase to the top, and then, working together, isolated the locking spell on the trapdoor just beyond the entrance to the- currently disused, as the present and absent Head Boy was a Hufflepuff- Head Boy's rooms. Then Harry hoist Ginny up on to his shoulders and lifted her out into the night air above. He hesitated. He hardly expected Ginny to lift him, but, on the other hand, he was undeniably a couple of inches too short to be able to put enough of his arms through the open trap door to get a purchase on the flagstones overhead. Fred and George had mentioned this bolt-hole to him last year, and the problem of height had been his main reason for not taking advantage of it. He supposed, feeling a little foolish, that he should have thought of this sooner.

"Erm, Gin?" He folded his arms. She looked down at him, and her eyebrows quirked in amusement.

"Midget," Ginny, who was two inches shorter than him if she wasn't a hippogriff, smirked, and drew her wand. "Locomotor Potter," she hauled him up through the gap.

"Thanks." He regained his footing. The view here was not, perhaps, as spectacular as from the Headmaster's Office- they were lower, and the silhouetted walls and towers and ridges and roofs of the school encroached higher on their horizons, but none the less, the night was as beautiful as it was cold. "Feeling better?"

She nodded, hair blowing over her face in the night breeze.

"It's just sometimes," she told him. "The worst- for Ron as well, I think, is when you've been better. For a while, just for a while, you forget, everything's normal... and then you realise that you're surprised that everything feels normal... and you wonder why, and then you remember. That's the worst," she repeated, and bit her lip. Harry nodded.

"So," Ginny cleared her throat, "What happened today? After my famous victory went to your head?" She grimaced. "Riddle?"

Harry walked over to the edge of the battlements and looked down at the light spilling from the Common Room windows below. He had promised her. He wouldn't shut her out.

"I'm not sure..." he mused. "Sometimes I can't tell if it's him, or my memory. I suppose there's not that much difference. It might have just been that dream I had last night..." He hesitated. "I don't know, though. Remember just after we'd got back- after Tom raided Azkaban? I got that weird feeling then that Malfoy was mixed up in what he was up to somehow?" He turned back to Ginny. "Today, when he was looking at us, I got a flash of that again, I think... and something I've heard Tom say before." His voice slowed, unwilling. "Kill the spare." He finished, reluctantly.

Ginny blanched. "And he thought this... when you and Malfoy were looking at me, did he?" she frowned, and fidgeted at her hair.

"I don't know," Harry said hastily. "Malfoy was looking at both of us."

"Maybe," Ginny forced a grim look on to her face, and deliberately narrowed her wide eyes. "But- with all due respect to my own ego, I can't see dearest Tommy calling you 'the spare', can you?" She snorted, making an effort to sound offended. "I'll 'spare' him, if he tries anything."

Harry stepped over the flagstones towards her.

"I'm not sure what it means though," he said, folding his arms around her. She was shivering- whether from the cold or from what he'd told her, he was not sure. "Draco's not taken the Dark Mark, I'm sure of that. I've tried that reveal charm on him three times this term."

"That doesn't mean he wouldn't work with Voldemort if it was going to hurt you, Harry," Ginny cautioned him. "And there's always the Imperius Curse."

"Well, yes, if we get really bored," Harry joked weakly. "He doesn't... act like that, though. And somehow- don't quote me on this, to anyone, but I can't actually see Malfoy as a Death Eater. He's too weaselly." His head jerked back, and Ginny saw his cheeks colour dark in the moonlight as he realised the error of his choice of words. "Gah, you've stolen my brain, woman."

"Personally, I always thought Draco was completely potty," Ginny observed drily. "One-all."

"Thanks. " He pulled her to him, and rested his head on her shoulders, enjoying the scent of her hair, made piquant in the chill of the night. "Even so, I don't think he'd want to join Voldemort- not go so far that he couldn't turn back if we turned the tables on him- not until he could see for sure that Tom was going to win, anyhow."

"In other words, he's a prat, but he's his own prat," Ginny shrugged.

"Fair enough." Harry paused. Then he lifted his head from her shoulder, and pulled back enough to look her in the eye.

"Gin..." he began, in a tragic voice, "What exactly is wrong with me?"

"How do you mean?"

Harry wrinkled his nose at her, choosing his words carefully.

"Here we are, standing alone on a high tower on a moonlit night, wind blowing through our hair--"

"And bloody perishing it is too."

"-- And I'm talking to you about Draco Malfoy." He grimaced.

"Hm." Ginny made a show of considering the point. "Perhaps you should change the subject then."

Harry looked lopsidedly at her. "Let's talk Blast-ended Skrewts."

"No," Ginny observed, moments before doing something that made further talk impractical, "Let's not."

* * *

Five minutes or so later, a small head of short blonde hair pushed its way up through the trap door, saw the two standing figures, raised its eyes briefly skyward in exasperation, and dropped quickly down from view.

"No luck," Clare sighed, as she slid down from her colleague's shoulders in the corridor. "Oh well, there's always the Charms classroom, if we can get there before Seamus and Lavender bag it. Come on Jack... oh, do keep up."

* * *

**Wolf's scream:** As you can see, Ginny and Ron aren't quite 'back to normal', but they're both a lot better.

**Iheartvoldie:** Without wanting to give too many future plans away, remember what Ginny and Tonks said a while back about being able to 'feel' magic? Other than the fact that it's the funniest form to give him, there's another reason Virginia was able to turn Malfoy into a ferret, whereas you rightly say she probably wouldn't be able to turn him into anything else. Well, not and keep him alive at the same time. Mind you, who'd miss him? No, Malfoy's not a ferret animagus. Although that would be funny.

**AriKitten:** Hope you enjoyed the slightly more relaxed pace on this one- the returning maniacs needed a bit of quality time. Plus I enjoy writing Ginny!

**Thevlyn:** I agree, it's a bit of a stretch. I'm taking the view that the whole 'forest' was a metaphor in Voldie's subconscious- so the animals were Harry's emotions etc, that he rode on the back of while gradually restoring his sentience. There's a particular reason that I want Tom to have been entirely on the mental plane, and then to have shifted back to the 'real' world after the Quirrell incident. I'm not saying Voldie genuinely thought he'd been in the Black Forest till Quirrell turned up, or that he was just outright lying to the Death Eaters so as not to look so vulnerable... but something in between. Even Tom doesn't fully understand what happened that night.

**CiA1:** There are an awful lot of plot 'fishhooks' dangling in the books, most of which JKR's presumably planning to tease things out of in her own way in the last two- if they're there, I might as well make use of them myself. :-) The one dangling plot I definitely won't be going into is the time turner one- Rowling's obviously setting it up for something, after that room in the D.of M., but there are so many time travel H.P. stories around already, that I can't see the point in trying to hammer it in.

**Rude:** What a polite review:-) Thanks very much. I'm certainly planning to see this through to the end.


	28. Serpent over Lion

**Chapter Twenty-eight:** Serpent over Lion

Draco Malfoy finished his cup of tea, and his head wavered, glazed half-closed eyes struggling to remain focused on the contemptible little man opposite him.

"How much-- how much longer?" he hissed impatiently, and was infuriated by the man's smile. "I need--" Malfoy broke off, pride re-asserting itself. "You told me," he said, more in control again, "You told me that I would have the power I needed." The cup and saucer tumbled from his hand and shattered on the carpet. Draco scarcely heard the sound, and heeded it not in the least.

He man in the chair smiled again, and continued to sip at his own tea. Malfoy squinted, trying to clear his vision. Strange... he had noticed the man's missing finger many times- now he saw that the other hand, the hand that held the cup to the man's peculiar, twitching face, seemed to gleam, a faint hint of steel or silver beneath flesh.

Sudden rage blossomed in him, and he leapt to his feet, drawing his wand and delighting in the fear in the vassal's eyes.

"You told me!" The anger seemed to sweep away the relief that the tea brought him each time, and his vision was seared red, detail fading away in the roaring wake of pain that rippled through his skull. "You... told... me..." Malfoy sank to his knees, his world darkening. "You told... me... I... should... have... power..."

"Drink your tea." Hands gripped him, unworthy arms lifted him bodily and pushed him back into the chair. A moment later, and he felt another cup pressed into his fingers. "Drink your tea," the man told him through the shadows in his mind. "You will have the power very soon, and a will to use it. Drink your tea, Draco. You may have a busy day tomorrow."

* * *

Kill the spare. Kill the spare. Kill the spare.

Harry wrenched himself awake, and sat up in the dark room, feeling the sweat chill on his face in the December night. He gritted his teeth, and rubbed the heel of his palm hard against the dull ache of his scar.

Again and again, the dream came. Each time with less and less detail, except the deep and brooding malignancy of the voice which spoke into his skull.

"Hurt her again and I'll _kill_ you," he whispered into the darkness, and warmth flared across his spine and neck in response to the anger, blanketing the cold of fear- then stifled a groan as the pain grew worse. Stupid. He planned to kill Voldemort whatever happened, just as the Dark Lord planned to kill him.

Would I go as far as him? What would I do, to try to save my own life?

Harry grunted in revulsion. He would not think like Voldemort.

It's the connection,

he told himself, and rubbed his eyes. He looked out past the dim shapes of the bed curtains- and stiffened. Down there, in the darkness, waiting, somewhere by the door, he saw them. Two small glints of reflected moonlight. Prickles of fear starting across his shoulderblades, and never taking his eyes from the watching eyes, Harry lunged across the bed for his wand- but the lights disappeared, and when he cautiously illuminated the room- taking care not to rouse his room-mates, as he knew only too horribly what fears his train of thought might put into Ron's mind, he felt inside his bedside cabinet for a large, stained piece of parchment, and spread it silently on the bed.

"I solemnly swear," Harry hissed, "That I am up to no good." Then he waited, impatiently poring over the map's lines and corners as it grew, his mind racing, searching for names- for one particular name, and finding it not.

"He's not here," he whispered to himself again, disbelievingly, and searched again. Yet he'd been so sure? Perhaps a dream. Perhaps, after all, a perfectly innocent full-time rat, searching for food, and not a moonlighting Death Eater.

"Perhaps," Harry muttered, unconvinced, but a lassitude was coming upon him. After all, he had been so close to sleep... his mind fought to hold on to what he had seen, but reason and common sense went against him, and, in a burst of irritation at his own irrational fears, he wiped the map clean, and settled into a very uneasy sleep.

* * *

The next day, clearing his throat, Harry glanced around the Room of Requirements. The Defence Association had gained a few new members in the course of the term- several after the incident with the Amoeba Vendetta, and one or two had followed suit as rumours of Ginny's humiliation of Draco and Harry's planned defiance of Voldemort had spread around the school later in the term. Possibly more important to him, though, was that, despite the horror of the raid on the Ministry- and other attacks by Death Eaters on the families of students before and since, no member of the DA who had joined at that first meeting had since departed. They stood together.

He smiled. The Room- helpfully- had itself grown somewhat in the last few weeks, both to accommodate the increased attendance and to allow for the increasingly volatile magic being practised. There was a growing trend towards what Ron, in a somewhat Hermione-like turn of phrase, had christened 'incendiary magic', largely inspired by Ginny's now somewhat infamous 'inflammtordue' spell. Although most of the spells used by his 'students' were rather more conventional fire spells, Harry had, over the last two meetings, become very grateful for the fire-proofing he'd had the foresight to work into the protection spells surrounding the DA uniforms. Ron and Hermione- and now Ginny, who had deservedly joined the three of them in the senior echelons of the Association since the Weasleys' return from London, joined him in the middle of the room, and faced outward, waiting for the crowd of several dozen to fall silent.

People were waiting for him to speak. He felt Ginny give him a gentle nudge in the ribs, and took half a step forwards.

"Thanks for coming," Harry smiled. "This is going to be the last meeting of term," A mixed reaction to that- many students, especially the younger ones, grinned at the prospect of the incipient holidays, but a fair few also wore expressions of sadness and frustration at the interruption- Hermione, of course, being one of the most noticeable of these. "So," he scratched at the back of his neck with one hand, and straightened his glasses with the other. "This isn't a class, whatever anyone tries to tell you-" he exchanged a glance with the clever witch. "And you're not having end-of-term exams. I just wanted to say how proud I... how proud we all ought to be of each other, and what we've done this term." He took a step back, and continued. Teaching still did not come easily to him. "The four of us will be working on a rough sort of game plan for the spring during the Christmas holidays, but if anyone has any suggestions, or wants to talk about anything they'd like to try, then please let Hermione, Ron, Ginny, or myself know before the end of the week."

A few speculative faces at that, and a number of glances Ginny's way. Harry's girlfriend had acquired quite a reputation for dangerous magic- and one that, if he were honest, worried him a little at times. He'd tried to pass on Professor Milner's warning about experimenting with spells to the girl, but- although he'd been nervous of offending her, Ginny had refused to take the matter entirely seriously.

"He's not teaching anything that advanced to the fifth year," she'd said smugly when he'd mentioned it, "So presumably I can't be doing anything dangerous yet." She smiled at her own display of Luna-logic.

"Mad as a hatter," he'd sighed, with a fond smile.

"Yes, dearest?" she'd responded, with such a wide-eyed look on her face that he'd collapsed into laughter, and that had been the end of the warning.

Dragging himself back to the present, Harry addressed the meeting again. He split them up into groups, as was the usual format, but rather than suggesting they try any particular type of magic, simply set the students to duel in pairs, with the hopeful intention of allowing them to hone some of the term's new skills a little before the holidays.

"I hope this lot get some practice in over Christmas," Ron- maintaining a rather good Shield Charm against an onslaught of Lainiyte Bat Jinxes from Luna, remarked as he circled past Harry, who was holding back a little from the temptation to hex Andrew Kirke too heavily- the boy having managed to project his own shield in every direction except the one he was currently looking- which was, of course, in the direction of Harry, his current sparring partner.

Ron gestured as surreptitiously as possible towards one corner, where Seamus Finnegan had just knocked out three fourth year students in a row with one Concussive Charm. "Rubbish," he remarked succinctly.

Harry grinned- then his face darkened for a moment.

"I just hope they don't get _too_ much practice," he told his friend, without thinking. Ron bit his lip, but met Harry's eyes, a defiant look in them.

"We've done our best," he said, bluntly. "Remember what Ginny said," he added after a moment, seeing the doubtful look in Harry's eyes. "It's not your fault. You didn't make Voldemort."

Harry nodded, then looked up in surprise at his friend. Ron gave him a calculating look.

"Come off it, mate," he sighed."If my little sister can say his name, I flipping well can. Voldemort." Ron took a deep breath. "There, my head didn't explode."

"I can fix that," Ginny's wand brushed the back of her brother's skull suddenly, coming up behind him, and he leapt into the air.

"Gah," Ron seethed. "The girl's a menace." Ginny walked round him, strutting easily in her DA uniform, and smiled at Harry and Andrew- the latter of whom, still trying to deflect Harry's somewhat lackadaisical attacks with some difficulty, gulped slightly.

"I thought I paired you up with Cho?" Harry- aware that Andrew was losing, and not wanting the boy to think he was playing with him, cast a quick somersault jinx and followed it up with a disarming charm as Kirke spun in the air. Gratefully, Andrew scuttled to one side, holding his hands up in surrender.

"She's... ah, having a little lie down." Ginny smirked. "She started insulting Michael Corner," she added, apologetically.

Harry gaped at her. "Says the girl who christened him "Michael Idiot Corner"?"

"It's different from me," Ginny told him, unabashed. "Besides, I think she was trying to see how things were going between us." The redhead scowled for a moment. "I'm tempted to hex the blazes out of you just to confuse her."

"Oh really?" Harry stopped, and rested one hand on his hips, a smile flickering to his lips, his eyes sending a challenge to hers, matched instantly by a twinkling in the depths of her pupils. "And since when do you think you'd be able to take me down?"

"Why, Harry, I'm certain there are all sorts of ways I could have with you." The scowl managed to disappear quite quickly- only to reappear on Ron's features, tempered by a certain look of nausea.

Harry took a step towards Ginny and started to circle her in the old way. Ron- quite hurriedly- retreated. Harry drew his wand, never letting his eyes leave hers. Sea-green glinted at chocolate brown.

"Point," Harry told her. "I would ask, though, for proof that wands can move as skilfully as tongues." He took another step forward.

Ginny raised her own wand again, and smiled playfully.

"To support," she told him, "I claim that the mind and the magic are the same. Creativity with one is evidence of creativity with the other."

"I concede." Harry took a step back. Ginny moved forward to counter it. Their wand-tips nearly touching, they prowled around one another. Ron moved back through the room, the various duels in progress gradually slowing or fading out. Although the pair's romance was hardly news at this stage- and, other than a few of either's more dedicated fans, who would sigh longingly on occasion, and incurable but disinterested romantics like Lavender or Parvati, Harry and Ginny flirting was no longer a matter of great interest, most people in the Association had, at one time or another, felt the power of their magic against them, and the prospect of a duel between the two brought almost everyone to rapt attention.

"Is it your contention, Miss Weasley, that you are in all respects, an experimenter?"

"Oh yes," Ginny grinned.

"Experimentation means making mistakes." He countered.

"Making mistakes confuses the enemy."

"Fair comment." Harry brushed his hair back from his eyes. Then, leaning forward towards her on the balls of his feet, he smiled teasingly. "Would Miss Weasley care to dance?"

"Careful, Mr Potter," she turned, taking one feline stride away from him and whirling again on her heel to face him once more. "If you follow my footsteps I might lead you astray."

Harry dropped into a slight crouch, attempting with some success to copy her lethal, cat-like stance.

"That should be fun," he purred. "Just so long as the castle survives."

"Oh, don't worry." Ginny's eyes glinted. "I promise I haven't been doing anything too dangerous, Harry." Her smile broadened playfully. "I've only been working on shield charms."

"Defensive magic," Harry commented. "I approve. Just so long as you haven't lost your... bite." He whirled away from her, and raised his eyes skyward for a second, planning strategy. "On the count of... zero!" Harry spun round, wand flicking out at his girlfriend. "Rictusempra!"

Ginny feinted sideways, then crouched forward, narrowly missing the curse, but managing to avoid being pushed to the defensive.

"Tarantallegra!" She grinned, leaping high to allow a counter-curse from Harry to pass under her feet, apparently inspired by his own mention of dancing.

"Protego!" Harry's shield held, but casting the shield charm allowed Ginny to maintain her attack. A volley of Stunning spells sent Neville and Dean, standing too close, to the ground senseless, while Harry dived sideways out of their path, sending a particularly effective Impediment Jinx at Ginny as he did so. While she struggled with the jinx, Harry regained his footing, and- making certain to target Ginny's jacket rather than her hair or skin, turned one of her own improvisations on the girl.

"Inflammtordue!" His wand jerked as the spinning spiral of fire flashed across the space between them. Ginny, down on one knee, twisted round, and swung up her own wand.

"Protegius Profligato!" she conjured. For a moment, a shield- a particularly dense and powerful shield, formed around her- almost hiding her features in an opaque ball of violet light- but no sooner had it formed than it collapsed outward, expanding and thinning. Harry stared for a second- then, too late, realised that the disintegrating shield spell was moving fast outward towards him- and still alive with magic. He started to throw up a shield of his own- but the wave of magic struck him, and the shock knocked the Boy-Who-Lived- along with most other people in the room- off his feet. It rippled through him, fizzing down his nerve endings and passing on, thinning as it went, nothing but a faint haze by the time it reached the walls.

Harry sat up, felt for his wand, straightened his hair and glasses, and tilted his head sideways.

"Ouch." He shook his head violently, felt his hair, rather curious to make certain that it hadn't been incinerated, and grinned questioningly at her.

Ginny, slightly red in the face, stuck out her tongue at him and sauntered over.

"I claim victory." She grinned, the expression belying her sombre tone of voice, and helped him to his feet. "What?" she asked with mock surprise, seeing his somewhat wry expression. She turned, and surveyed a room of students getting to their feet and rubbing various sore parts of their anatomy. "What?" Ginny asked again, innocently.

"Just a shield charm, you said," Colin Creevey moaned- but with a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Well, that's what it is," Ginny told them, in the same innocent tone of voice. "Just a shield that's rigged to collapse as soon as it's cast." She turned to Harry, and adopted the same lecturing tone she'd heard him use on occasion when he'd managed to become absorbed in teaching the Association. "It's not as good a shield as the proper one, of course- and because it doesn't last at all you have to time it perfectly to match whoever's fighting you- but it does mean you don't have to go on the defensive. You can get in a counter strike at the same time as you're defending yourself."

"And attack is the best form of defence," Luna murmured from somewhere. Ginny nodded at her.

"Right."

The Ravenclaw girl smiled, tidying her robes and absently fiddling with a small black stone on her necklace. "Uncle Aloysius and father always say that power isn't what's limited, just ways to use it," Luna told the group dreamily, and paused, having managed to twist the necklace tight around her throat. After a minute, she continued. "I wonder what sort of magic we could do, if we stopped following the rules." She seemed quite taken by the thought. A little hurriedly, before Luna decided to try anything that might be... unwise, Harry took back control of the meeting.

"Expect anything," he told them. "And don't assume your opponent's read the same rule book you have." He paused, and looked around the room, a sudden spark of glee coming into his voice. "In the case of some Death Eaters, don't assume they can read at all."

* * *

The plump, sweaty man shifted nervously around the little room that had been his lair for so many weeks, making tea, his ears practically cocked for any noise, however slight, from outside, any movement on the other side of the thick, yellow frosted glass panels along the upper half of the partition wall that separated the Slytherin Prefects' office from the Common Room. He twitched his nose excitedly as the liquid in the kettle began to boil, then batted irritably at his nostrils with his silver hand.

Not much longer now. He sat down on one of the four worn and faded armchairs which creaked the last vestiges of their lives away around the scarred and pitted round surface of the coffee table, and licked his lips in anticipation. Soon everything would be in place.

A noise outside- a door opened- and he cringed, arms coming up to his chest, sinking back into the threadbare and almost colourless upholstery. His subject was supposed to ensure that all the children were away, practising Quidditch or some such childish nonsense. The long-haired man's nose twitched, and his fleshy, mutilated hand held his wand between its remaining trembling fingers. If one of the children came in here, then he would have no choice. He had come dangerously close with the Potter boy the previous night- but his master knew Potter, understood the enemy's mind, and he knew that all worked to the Dark Lord's greater design. No other could be permitted to know the truth- not until the time came.

It was not a student. The little man's sweat cooled on his pudgy face, and his eyes burned with another sort of mistrust as a harsh voice muttered something in the outer room, and a tall, slightly hook-nosed profile passed over the glass. Silently, the man in the office scurried over to the desk where the kettle sat boiling, and dulled the charm upon it, silencing its faint whistle. He narrowed his eyes, as Severus Snape continued to move around the Common Room. His master trusted Snape, seemed to be convinced for some reason he would not disclose of Snape's absolute loyalty to his cause. The feral, twitch-nose man in the office did not share that confidence. Crouched low, and taking the time only to snatch up a particular sheet of yellowing parchment from the desk, he scuttled noiselessly over to the dark wooden panelling of the partition wall, and pressed his ear to it. He fingered his wand. For years, he'd hated Severus Snape.

How long had it been? How many years since he had been a Marauder, had taken so great a delight in the greasy-haired boy's suffering at James and Sirius' hands? The relief he'd felt when the other three had accepted them, when they'd given him the chance to be strong, to be brave and part of something such... fun, had soured when he had seen Severus, pawing so pathetically at life, so eager to become part of it. He hadn't wanted that reminder of failure, of how long he had waited on the outside of friendships, and he'd driven the boy off. Then, of course, his friends had rallied round him, James delighting in the chance to show how powerful and inventive he could be, and Snape had become their enemy for life.

The silhouette on the glass faded, moving away, and the frightened Gryffindor breathed again as he heard the Common Room door close behind Snape once more. To trust Snape with his presence here- that was too much to fear, no matter what the Dark Lord might say. To kill him- that would have been to invite certain death from his master. His heart racing, the man in the office forced protesting muscles to uncurl, and crept back to the desk.

The adrenaline racing round his system was perfect, an opportunity not to be missed. He pulled a small silver bodkin from an inside pocket of his torn and travel-stained brown robes, and forced it savagely into the back of his wounded hand, tilting it until five drops of his blood fell into the teapot, bubbling as they diffused into the potent mixture.

"Bound to me, your will shaped as your power grows, bound to me, the mighty slave, the helpless giant ensnared by the secret teeth in the dark." The man drew out the parchment again from the folds of his robes, and pressed it flat on the table, reading the two words written there, almost burned into the parchment, written and overwritten again and again, with a satisfaction that calmed his fears. No, his former friends, his former self, neither would give away his secret to the Boy-Who-Lived. He had hidden too long in the dark corners of the world.

He poured the fresh infusion of boiling water into the teapot, and waited, then fetched two dirty, brown-stained teacups from the low table, bringing them to the desk to be filled. The heady aroma of _zephyr caldat_ filled his nostrils.

"Soon you will be ready."

* * *

After the meeting, Hermione conjured six chairs- something always easier to practice and to do in the Requirement Room than elsewhere, since the Room's own instinct to furnish itself tended to pick up and follow the intent of the spell, and guide it to a successful conclusion- and Neville and Luna joined the four of them for a brief meeting. 

"Good work on that shield spell," Harry finally managed to say to Ginny, who had curled up catlike in a chair opposite him. She beamed at him.

"It was a bit of an accident really," she confessed, and glanced at Hermione. "I've been trying to build a more powerful shield- I tried that particular thread of magic out before checking it through for errors." Ginny grinned. "It made a bit of a mess the first time."

"Just be careful, like Harry says," Hermione cautioned her. "That sort of power's not really a laughing matter."

Ron reached across and- half-flicking a nervous glance around the room, hesitantly stroked his bushy-haired friend's arm. Hermione took his hand gratefully, while Harry, Ginny, and Neville exchanged speculative glances, and Luna watched with apparently unjealous fascination, causing Ron's nervousness to grow rather more pronounced.

"Might as well laugh at it as not, then," he shrugged, calming her. "Ginny's like Fred and George. The yolk tends to miss them when the frying pan blows up."

"I think Ginny should keep trying," Luna said, out of the blue. "Mother always used to say that the only way to see if something was going to work was to have a go."

"Yes, but she..." Ron trailed off, awkwardly, and cringed. He shot a trapped look at Harry. Luna gave him a trusting smile.

"It's a pity," Neville said, trying to move the conversation forward, "There isn't some way you could get a shield strong enough to block the Unforgivable Curses. That's what we're going to be up against, after all, isn't it?" He looked round at them. Harry and Hermione met his eyes.

"I don't think it's about power," Hermione said. "Remember-" she looked at Harry and Ginny, "What Ginny said that night in Grimmauld Place. There's something different about the Unforgivables." She nodded. "From what I could tell from that book, Ranbrot used a totally different way of spellweaving than most other wizards. I don't think a shield charm could block them, no matter how strong you made it."

"Maybe not a conventional shield," Ginny mused. "But surely there ought to be something we can do?"

"I don't think so." Hermione shook her head. "I know, I know that book told us what we wanted to know about Harry's scar, but no one had ever really looked at that before. People have been trying to find ways to stop the Killing Curse for centuries now. To be honest, I don't think it can be stopped."

Ginny frowned, and shifted a little in her chair. Harry leant his elbows on the arms of his chair, and leaned forward a little.

"You're still worried about Malfoy?" he said quietly. The girl shook her head emphatically.

"Not a chance," she bared her teeth.

"Did Dumbledore say anything?" Neville asked Harry.

The Boy-Who-Lived shook his head, sinking back against the wooden back of the chair with a disgusted expression on his face.

"I can't seem to get near him without Snape turning up," he sighed. "And it's always the same, how he's been doing everything he can to bolster Draco's confidence, make him sure he can succeed in the wizarding world the way it is, make him see the Death Eaters as a threat because they're going to topple the system, all the same old rubbish he's been using to justify keeping Malfoy as a pet for the last six years," Harry sneered.

"Well, didn't you say yourself you didn't see Malfoy as a Death Eater?" Neville glanced at Ginny. They'd shared that conclusion with the rest of the group. Harry, reluctantly, nodded.

"I wasn't going to tell him that," he said, bitterly. "I did bring up the Imperius Curse though- and he just twisted his lip at me, told me I was a fool if I imagined that any student in this school could be under the control of someone else without his being aware of it." He parroted Snape's words angrily, partly in annoyance, and partly to see a faint smile return to Ginny's lips at the sound.

"Well, that might well be true," Hermione mused. "There are such things as Monitor Charms, after all."

"Yeah, assuming Snape's not the one controlling Malfoy in the first place," Neville observed.

Ron shook his head.

"I don't think so," the red-headed boy mused, his hand unconsciously cupping Hermione's elbow. "I know," he added, in the face of a surprised- but agreeing- look from Harry, "I'd normally say the greasy prat'd do anything... but I reckon if he was going to start working for Voldemort again, or if he has, he wouldn't want to work through Malfoy. He'd want to get Harry- and Ginny," he added, his face paling slightly, "Himself."

* * *

Blaise was whistling as she entered the Slytherin dungeons- partly because she'd heard a good tune earlier that day, and partly because it was nearly the holidays, and she'd be able to get back to her nicely unpleasant parents and continue cordially hating them for a few weeks, but mostly because she knew that her whistling annoyed Pansy Parkinson. 

Parkinson was nowhere to be seen, though- indeed, for more than a moment she thought the long, low room was entirely empty and, shrugging her shoulders, started on her way towards the girls' corridor, when a low noise from behind a chair in the corner stopped her. The high-backed chair had been turned to face the wall, and as she watched, pale hands gripped the arms, and a blonde-haired figure rose smoothly to his feet.

Blaise shook her head slightly, and turned to go on walking again.

"You think you're so clever, don't you?" Malfoy drawled at her. She resisted the temptation to reply. It was the first time Draco had spoken to her directly- as opposed to simply making insulting comments to other people- outside lessons since she'd betrayed him to Harry earlier in the term, and, to be perfectly honest with herself, she had enjoyed the silence. Picking fights with the boy was amusing enough for a while, but Malfoy's endless ego soon outlasted her patience.

"I was talking to you, Zabini," Draco rapped out in a monotone as Blaise walked away. Piqued with annoyance, she turned, and saw that Malfoy was watching her, a harsh, blunt look on his face at odds with his normal air of cruelty. The boy glowered at her, and stirred at the coals of the fire. Something seemed to move behind his eyes, a disconnected look of directionless wrath, and abruptly, he snatched up an empty teacup from the arm of the chair, and hurled it into the flames.

Blaise twisted her lip.

"Yeah, whatever, Draco," she snapped, turning away again decisively. "Go show off how mean and tough you are to someone who gives a damn..."

"Good idea," he grated, and something in the tone of his voice stopped her dead. Without thinking, she drew her wand, flinging herself sideways out of the path of a streak of green light that came from behind.

"What the hell..." Blaise scrambled behind a chair, and fired off a Stunner, ducking back out of the way of a vicious crackling sphere of red lightning before she'd had a chance to see if she'd found her target.

"I've got a message for you to deliver," she heard Draco say, in a dull, catching voice, and knew that she had failed. She threw herself out from behind the chair, cursing desperately, and Malfoy, ducking round each spell she cast, swept his wand across the room. "Obliterata Concussivia!" A great wind whipped up, and tables and chairs and rugs and books and crockery rose up, cracking and tearing and splintering, and she was whirled along with it, until stone was breaking behind her and something struck the back of her skull with a sickening crack, and the only thing remaining was blackness.

* * *

Phew, well, here we are, another chapter. Sorry about the slightly longer wait than normal, but I've been building up to what's coming next for a while, only to find that my draft version didn't quite match the characters. So, five or six rewrites later, here we are. Right, reviews:

**AriKitten:** I actually pity Draco a little. Not much, but a bit. I'll feel sorrier for him soon...

**krissygurl:** Glad it makes sense to you. I may 'tweak' canon occasionally, but I hope to mostly stick to the rules.

**Wolf's scream:** I put in that bit about 'present and absent Head Boy' as a deliberate linguistic joke, so yes, I agree it sounds weird.

**Crazy-Physco **&**KitKatKate0517** Thanks! Hope you still think so after I've got to the end.

**Hermpotter:** Something is in the wings, yes- but I take your point about the story being twenty or thirtychapters in and having only begun to scrape away the outer layers. I'm deliberately pacing this one very slowly, mainly because I like long stories, but also to try to give a respectable amount of attention to each plot element. It may well be a little _too_ drawn out- but I'd rather that risk than unravel events too quickly, which can end up feeling too contrived.

**dementorchic:** "Hammer"'s probably my favourite chapter of the thing so far- if it isn't, then it ties with "Attack of the AMOEBA VENDETTA!" so I'm glad you liked it. I've always enjoyed writing delerium. As for beating Little Tommy and getting rid of the connection- well, the only way to finally sever the link is for one to kill the other, but it's possible that the similarities between the two of them might have their uses...


	29. Midnight

**Chapter Twenty-nine:** Midnight

Ginny left them alone, walked briskly along the corridors and halls away from the Room of Requirements. She'd claimed a need to check up on Hedwig and Pigwidgeon, and excused herself, silently communicating to Harry with her eyes the need to be on her own for a while. He'd half-risen to follow her, then narrowed his eyes in understanding, and lowered himself back into his chair, to ask Neville a question about his wand.

Accidental magic crackled through her long hair as she walked, and the torches and candles bracketed to the walls flickered and wavered as she passed. It seemed so... wrong to feel fear. Fear for herself, after what had happened to Percy, to Cedric Diggory, to Harry's parents. She gritted her teeth together, coming to understand more fully the shame Harry had felt. After Voldemort had hurt so many, somehow, the knowledge that he was targeting her, and worse, the fear that woke in her heart, though she might deny it to everyone but Harry, felt... _selfish._ Fear and anger. Anger that, she realised, making a rather unsuccessful attempt to tame her hair following a surprised and amused series of looks from a group of Hufflepuff girls she passed, flaming hair flickering and flapping in rivalry with the torchlight around her shoulders, anger that Riddle didn't feel he'd interfered in her life enough.

The diary weighed heavily on her mind these days. She was only grateful- and, again, in turn angry with herself for her relief, that she did not have to share Harry's permanent infection with the mind of the Dark Lord, but still that one glimpse into their shared consciousness gripped her with horror, that one glance back at the cruel mind of Tom Marvolo Riddle as he had gazed across her brother's body and met her eyes in the memory of the Pensieve, still that brief nightmare bound his dark soul tighter to her memory.

Kill the spare.

She opened the Owlery door and went through, pushing her fingers through her hair in a habit the Boy-Who-Lived seemed to have learned from her, and held out a hand to Hedwig's ghostly form as the owl watched her from a high perch. He had told her about the dreams- and she had not told him of the nightmares that they had aroused in her. Ginny scowled. Again, the darkness drove a wedge between them.

Hedwig flew to her hand, almost dislodging the sleepy Scops owl that was Ron's slightly unreliable messenger from its almost un-noticed perch at Hedwig's side. Ginny petted the magnificent snowy owl, sitting cross-legged on the floor. It would have been wrong to tell him. If she had, then he would have been afraid to tell her more, for fear of making the nightmares worse. There seemed no way out of the breaking of confidences, by one path or another.

"I'll kick Little Tommy in the teeth before I'm done," she muttered, and reached out a hand to snag Pig, whose excitable bouncing was interfering in the owls' preparations for the night's hunting and flying. She saw several wide wingspans spread and launch across the dark ceiling, arcing towards the nooks and crannies in the tower loft that led out to the night sky. Thin trickles of white, powdery snow, dislodged from outside, fell down from the crevices, flakes sparkling in the torchlight.

The worst dream haunted her. She had felt... in a way, she had imagined that she was Harry, charging to the rescue without a thought for her own safety, running down dark corridors into the heart of night, and hearing those words again and again.

Kill the spare.

"I won't let you," she'd snarled in her dreams... but each time she had been too late, and her shapeless foe- sometimes Voldemort, sometimes Malfoy, sometimes something in between, had each time stood over a tiny body devoid of life.

Ginny had focused her efforts into her magic. Although she mentioned it to none, it was her secret hope to somehow- somehow create some power that could hold back the darkness- but where could she begin?

"I don't even know what I'm looking for..." Ginny sighed to Hedwig. "I just want him stopped. Just some way I can get him out of our world." The girl sighed, shaking her head. Just dreams. Dreams and hopes.

She brushed the hair out of her eyes and stood up, launching a not entirely willing Hedwig back up into the air towards his perch. Ginny had always been fond of owls- and as Hedwig's apparent jealously over her claim on Harry's attention and time lessened, she had formed something of a rapport with the bird. She watched the creature circle back upwards, constant in its dignity, and smiled despite herself, calling Pigwidgeon to her in turn.

She was being silly. Of course she was, Ginny reminded herself crossly. Secrets kept for habit's sake alone were a barrier between them that served no good purpose at all.

"What would I say if I put it in a letter, Pig?" she stroked the little owl's throat, and saw his little gold-black eyes sparkle happily. "I'm afraid." She shrugged. "That's all there is to it, isn't there... and what would I say if Harry said it to me? All right then," she adopted a ringing, falsely confident tone, "Let's make Little Tommy _more_ afraid." The small woman set Pigwidgeon down on a block of stone. "Not a bad idea," she remarked, with exaggerated glee, turning to the door. "I'm going to go back," she told Pig. "I'm going to sort this out." Ginny's fingertips touched the doorknob.

It was, she thought later, as if the air had turned momentarily solid about her, and been struck with a hammer blow that knocked everything violently several inches to the right. She staggered, ears ringing from a colossal detonation, and grabbed at the doorframe to keep her balance, trying to clear her head of the sound of explosions and, closer to hand, the angry hooting and screeching of disturbed owls. Ginny drew her wand on instinct, and reached for the doorknob again- then fell to her knees, a burning sensation across her knuckles, her vision darkening. The world faded, and as all sensation died, a dead white rose blossomed against the black.

Kill the spare.

Red pinpricks stared at her out from the livid, ashen flesh.

Kill the spare.

Dimly, she felt her hands grasping at something- the memory of the rim of a golden bowl, the memory of a memory, and she crouched, winded, in the ruins of Cornelius Fudge's office, and, impossibly, the memory of evil turned its head to look upon her.

Dear Diary, my name is Virginia Weasley, age 11, and I'm unhappy.

Hello, Virginia Weasley. My name is Tom Riddle. Tell me how I can help.

Kill the spare.

"I... won't..." Rage burned away the images, the door to the Owlery etched itself in red upon her retina, cutting through the monochrome face of the Dark Lord. "I won't..." The face sought to re-establish itself, the door fading away. Ginny reached out to it, crawling on hands and knees. "I won't... give in... I won't..."

Oh, but you will, Virginia. Borrow my strength. Let my will flow through you, let my nature strengthen your own, let me soothe away the fears and the darkness in your heart. All I ask in return is a little thing, so little a thing.

You are nothing, a weak blood-traitor and a fool. You cannot stop me.

She seized the door handle with fingers that screamed at every movement, hauled herself up to her feet, half-blind, the visions before her eyes flashing and whirling away.

Luna, slumped against a wall, her face pale, a trickle of blood running from the corner of her mouth.

The door was no longer in her way. Ginny staggered through burning splinters, and the stones of the corridor rose up to meet her like a swell on the ocean waves.

Neville, flung back across the floor, his limbs twisted un-naturally, his shirt soaked with blood.

She fought, lashing out with unfeeling hands, ears ringing with the roar of battle that she alone could hear, the owls behind her settling back, calm once more. The ground receded, and she claimed the opposite wall with a surge of triumph, forcing herself upright.

Hermione and Ron, cowering together, her brother desperately trying to defend the girl against the darkness.

"I... won't... let... you..." She grated, dragging herself along the corridor in a shambling run.

Harry, standing astride a rent and hewn gravestone, one hand held aloft, a light like the sun pouring from his fingers, his hair wild, and his scar burning red. Fear. Terror. Agony and the onset of night.

"I won't let you hurt any of them!"

Follow them,

The voice exulted.

Go to them, save them.

"I will not give in!"

From a dark shadow where the walls met the floor, glittering rodent eyes watched her go.

My will be done through thy hands,

In all things my soul leads, all other minds but tools.

Life, death, magic, even time's sands.

None shall halt my need, no further spirit may rule.

* * *

White-hot agony burned in his scar, and for an instant he saw a girl, twisting helplessly in the air, thrown back against a wall which crumbled behind her, saw rubble fall, felt evil's glee, felt recognition torn away, until only the memory that she was known to him, cared for, was all that remained.

Harry screamed, kicking and scrabbling against the grip on his mind. He had to... had to win his way back through the maze of hate to the real world.

He felt hands touch his body, felt the mind of evil revolt against their touch and reached out gladly to them.

"... You-know-who..." Neville's voice, questioning.

"... must be. Harry! Harry!" Hermione called.

"... does look remarkably like Stubby Boardman's half-phoenix sister, when he's lying like that."

That could only have been one person.

He pushed his eyes open, prising back a terrible weight, and looked into Ron and Luna's concerned face, moments before his best friend slapped his face hard.

"Harry... what's happening?" The redhead had caught Harry's chair, to try to stop it toppling backwards as the fit had come over him, and now, light-headed at the echoing, booming, tearing throb in his scar, the Boy-Who-Lived clawed at Ron to pull himself upright.

"We have to..." he gasped. "He's attacking... someone... here... in the school..."

"Ginny!" Neville snatched up his wand. "Where did she go?"

The five looked at each other. Then Luna stood up.

"She'll have gone to the Owlery," the pale girl remarked, in a brisk, business-like tone of voice. "It's always been the best place."

Walls of stone, dark and deep.

Harry drew his own wand, pushing his way past Ron and Hermione and- his feet wavering slightly, forged a path to the door. Something askew, something _wrong_ roared in his mind, but then a terrible voice silenced all doubt.

Kill the spare.

Kill the spare.

"Come on!" Harry roared furiously, wrenching the door open. "I'll kill him!" he added, as four more pairs of feet pounded down the corridor after his. "I'll bite out his neck if he hurts her!" Hot rage, so recently drawn back, flowed again down the pathways and highways and byways of memory and thought, melting, reshaping, casting his mind anew in the flames of anger.

Kill the spare.

Down they ran, through the labyrinth of corridors, past dwindling darkening torches, until, on the castle's northern side, where the stone walls rose sheer above a snow-whitened vale beneath, Harry turned a corner and saw, at a crossroads ahead, a thin, black robed figure, its head a pale glint in the dark.

"Cryos!" he snarled, and even as the finger of cold lashed out at the shape ahead, part of his mind told him that the pain in his head had grown no more intent- and he knew that he had been right, and Snape cataclysmically wrong.

"Protego!" Malfoy barked, turning, a fey gleam in his eyes, and held up one white hand, turning it to and fro behind his Shield Charm so that Harry could see the bright red blood on his fingers.

The Boy-Who-Lived growled, and sprang forward, slashing at Malfoy with raw power- but the pale Slytherin dropped into a crouch, and responded with a Reductor curse that flung Harry back into his following friends, shattering his shield without effort.

"What the hell...!" he heard Ron choke, as the breath was knocked out of him- but Draco was on them again, the lights dying as he reared over their heads, and a Bone-breaker curse sent Hermione rolling away to one side, clutching her wand arm in agony.

"Stupefy!" Harry thrust up with his wand, but Malfoy knocked him sideways- and Ron too, away to the other side. Harry staggered, and as he turned he saw his nemesis, a cruel flicker in his eyes, send a Repulsion spell hard into Neville and Luna at close range. They were flung back through the air, blown off their feet, Luna's wand flying from her hand as she snatched desperately, meaninglessly, at her throat, before crashing back into the wall behind, both falling back unmoving to the ground.

"Obliter..." Harry began, but Malfoy's wand, moving with impossible speed, swung to cover him again, and a dizziness hex swamped his vision and hearing, the world spinning about him as- dimly, he saw Draco turn his wand back towards Ron, trying to pull the wounded Hermione out of the way of the battle.

"Expelliarmus!" Harry grabbed at the wall to stop the universe's violent motion, too weak in his present state to hurt Malfoy, but drawing the boy's attention back from his friends. Draco turned, a mad, abandoned gleam in his eyes that Harry had seen before, and walked towards Harry.

"This is it, Potter," the boy panted, a nasty, brutal smile growing across his features. "You're going to pay for--"

"REDUCTO!" The searing blast of red light knocked Malfoy away, and Ginny, sparks crackling from her hair, charged out of one of the other junctions. "Obliterata Malus!" she shrieked in a high, furious snarl, sending the boy staggering again, as he fought to regain his balance. Harry struggled to clear his head, and flung another Stunning spell at Draco- partnered by one from Ginny. The relief at seeing her, furious but unharmed, sang in his heart, and for a brief moment, washed away the pain.

Then, slowly straightening his back under the glow of the impact of the young couple's assault, Draco Malfoy smiled again.

"Finished?" He smirked, and- stepping over Neville and Luna's unconscious bodies, he raised his wand, turning his body in a classic dueller's stance.

He's not that powerful. Damn it, I know he isn't.

"REDUCTO!" Malfoy bellowed, and both Harry and Ginny tumbled helplessly before him. "CALLUS IMPORTUNA! EXPECTO MALUM! OBLITERATA CONCUSSIVIA!" Each spell upon powerful spell sent them reeling, Shield Charms bending and breaking beneath the assault, and, as they were driven back, each sought in vain to protect the other from the back-breaking onslaught of power.

"What... what's he _done_?" Ginny hissed, wide eyed and wrathful.

"I don't... know..." Harry flung up his strongest shield, blocking a Cardiarrestae, but leaving him visibly strained from the effort. "Got to keep... going back... lead him away from the others..."

* * *

The quarters of Severus Snape, high above the castle's eastern side, were less gothic than, perhaps, Ronald Weasley might have imagined, but distinctly austere. The man, adrift in the dangerous seas of shifting allegiances and loyalties, had not in all his years as a teacher felt it necessary to furnish his chambers with much in the way of personal effects- a few books, a large Expanded Periodic Table of Mundane and Magical Elements hung on one wall, a dark and knarled old wardrobe, and a desk and chair set askew on a mouldering green carpet gave the outer living room all the character he desired. It was sitting at that desk that Professor Milner found him, some moments before Draco's assault on Harry Potter and his friends began in earnest, and Snape's reaction was as uncordial as the Thaumaturgist had been prone to expect. 

"Haven't you ever heard of knocking, Milner?" Snape remarked acidly, as the Dark Arts Master leant on the doorframe to catch his breath.

"Slytherin... Common Room..." Milner wheezed. "Get moving..."

"What is it?" Snape rose to his feet, recognising the urgency in the other's voice. Milner shook his head.

"Och, I don't know, Severus," he snarled, already leading the way back into the corridors. "Goyle... Greg Goyle, found me... someone's hurt... will you get moving..." suddenly, Milner stopped dead, and all colour drained from his face. "Luna..." he gasped, feeling for his throat. He turned, and looked hard into Snape's eyes. "If she's dead," he remarked, one hand grasping convulsively at something just below the collar of his shirt, "I'll cut Draco up sinew by sinew- alive." Then, running as fast as he could, forcing ragged breaths from protesting lungs, he was gone.

* * *

Ginny and Harry had run into a long, narrow gallery, on one side overlooking the castle courtyard from the second floor, the other a long windowless stone wall, cold against the valley outside. They pressed their backs against the stonework. At the end of the gallery, his movements unhurried, his face alight with harsh intent, Malfoy walked towards them. 

Harry glanced at Ginny, then out over the balustrade down into the courtyard. He made a slight motion towards it with his wand. She nodded. There was nowhere else left to run.

"Inflammtordusus Maximus!" Harry stepped in front of her, sending a whirling torrent of fire at Draco, covering Ginny as she ran, diving for the edge of the gallery. Malfoy's wand whirled, sweeping the fire away with a deflection spell, and then, even as Ginny's feet left the ground, he roared out a final, terrible incantation, and the very walls about them burst asunder.

* * *

"Professor..." Ron stirred, weakly, to see Milner bent over Luna's body, his face red with fury. The Weasley boy clutched his own aching skull. "Is she... all right?" 

"How should I know?" Milner looked up, his normally protuberant eyeballs bulging even more in his desperation. "I'm a magician, not a doctor--"

The castle shook, a violent convulsion seeming to lift it from its very foundation stones and set it back. Hermione raised her head weakly.

"What the bloody hell was that?"

* * *

Harry felt himself flying through the air, saw the stone balustrade flash past, tumbling away above him, the snow-speckled sky spinning. Dimly, he saw flashes, saw the wall behind shatter and give way, Ginny plucked out through it, her small body tumbling helplessly. He saw Draco's face twist in triumph and agony, his wand burning away to ash in his fingers from the sheer power of the spell. He saw, as he tumbled to face downwards, the ground rush meaninglessly up to meet him. 

"Repellos!" Harry's voice cracked, but the spell flung him back, even as it had done in the Requirement Room, or on the Quidditch Pitch. "Gin!" He shouted, but as the crumbling gallery spun back into his vision and he flung out his wand to pull him towards it he saw that she had gone, and Draco had gone, out into the night. He staggered on the edge of a jagged hole in the stones of the castle, and saw dimly far below, in the ghost-white hollow of the valley, a small shape, its red hair dark in the monochrome snowlight, try to rise, and slump back. Even as he cried out, fought with swimming head to bring his wand to bear, another figure flitted by- a pale headed figure mounted on a broom, and it dipped down, scooped up the fallen girl, and rose up into the blue-black sky.

"Accio Firebolt!" Harry's arm shot out of its own accord, the blood pounding through his heart and trickling down his forehead forcing its way past all the voices that told him his strength was spent.

"ACCIO!" Harry shouted again, not daring to take his eyes from Malfoy's broom, as the dark silhouette rose further and then, like a creature scenting its home upon the wind, darted away into the night sky. Malfoy didn't want Ginny dead, Harry saw then with a terrible clarity that froze his blood. She was being taken to Voldemort.

"I will... not... let... you... have... her..." The thought drowned everything else.

* * *

Snape knelt over Blaise Zabini in the ruined Common Room, watched from a distance by the other pupils of his House, their practised masks of arrogance and superiority washed away by pale-eyed fear. 

"She will live," he muttered, carefully casting a ward around the girl's scalp. "But she has several fractures of the skull," he rose to his feet, his eyes dark, and turned to Goyle, at the forefront of the group. "Fetch Madam Pomfrey immediately." Severus Snape's head twisted from left to right, his rage all the more terrifying for the icy control behind which it lay, unseen, but well known to every student who looked into his eyes. "Somebody knows who did this." It was not a question. Snape's personal feeling of mild contempt for Zabini was not an issue. He was head of Slytherin, and with that post came a responsibility. "You will tell me."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, can't you bloody well see the obvious for once?" Milner stormed into the room, flanked by Ron and a rather battered looking Luna. "Yon uppity little twerp," he gestured meaningfully towards the Prefects' Office. "Your pet Draco. I gather Mr Potter's been trying to tell you for weeks."

"Draco Malfoy?" Snape stared. Ron, his face suddenly fading from red to white, rounded on Snape as Milner blasted open the lock to the office.

"Yes, you dozy prat!" Ron shouted. "Who d'you think? It's not Neville's toad, is it?"

"Weasley, I will not permit such..." Snape began.

"What kind of bloody moron are you?" Ron screamed at him. "How many times have we got to..."

"Fifty points from Gryffind--"

"Oh, shut up!" Ron pushed past him and into the office. "Get it into your thick head, that little ferret's a Death Eater!"

"No, he is..." Snape began, but broke off, as Milner turned, standing in the middle of the room, holding a torn piece of parchment in his hands. The stout man thrust it abruptly at Ron, and turned his attention to a pair of empty teacups.

Ron stared at the parchment- at first in incomprehension, and then in mounting horror.

"Scabbers..." he breathed.

"I'm guessing young Potter has some sort of Recognition Chart?" Milner asked, absently, his earlier rage seemingly drained away, as he sniffed thoughtfully at the unwashed cups.

"Yes... I... the Marauders' Map..." Ron stifled a protest as Snape snatched the parchment away, read the two words written there, again and again.

Peter Pettigrew.

"Very nice little obfuscation charm," Milner commented. "Just enough to stop one name appearing on it for a while- if whoever cast it knew how the original chart was put together. Someone's been very clever."

"But he couldn't have been using the Imperius Curse..." Snape protested again, seeming lost. "I don't..."

"Och, will someone nae shut yon blabbermouth up?" Milner groaned. "He wasn't. Do try to keep up." Milner pressed a teacup into Snape's hands, a contemptuous glare on his face. "Smell anything familiar?"

To do Severus Snape credit, he did not hesitate.

"We have to find Potter," he grated. "Immediately."

* * *

Harry flew on through the gathering blizzard, cursing Draco under his breath and trying to get a good shot with his wand. If he could just manage to get close enough to Summon Ginny... he'd snatched his broom out of the blue, but after the fight that had drained him so much- too much, and, even though his Firebolt was the faster broom, whatever else he could say- and, frequently, had said- about the boy, Malfoy could undeniably fly. Now, without the rules of Quidditch, and the predictability of manoeuvres that engendered, Harry was reduced to simply following the Slytherin through the air, trying to keep pace with his twists and turns of flight, and periodically, when Malfoy's direction seemed stable enough, casting any one of the assortment of suitable curses the Gryffindor Seeker's mind offered up for the occasion. 

What the hell was Draco thinking? Harry snarled, savagely forcing more power into his Firebolt, and accelerating forward. They were heading towards higher ground now, the thickly wooded mountains behind the castle looming up ahead of him, white with snow and black with shadow.

It's a trap.

The thought, forming slowly in his subconscious since the start of the chase, flitted into his forebrain as he saw the dark, rolling monochrome of the hillside approach him through the gloom. They were off Hogwarts' grounds by now, they must be.

Harry headed his broom into the wind, swinging himself round without a word. All the rage, all the anger and fury in his mind screamed at him to go on, his emotions a boiling tumult- and he felt a dark mind at the centre of his rage, forcing it to greater heights.

"Stop!" He shouted desperately. "Malfoy, think about this, for gods' sake!"

He leant forward on his broom, knowing as he saw the boy and the pale, unmoving bundle slung across the handle of the Nimbus sink towards the forest that this was his last chance, and started to accelerate once more.

"CAPTIVIA INCANUS!"

The Firebolt bucked and shuddered beneath him, his magical energy suddenly sealed away from it.

"Wh-- Protego!" Harry shouted, desperately swinging his wand out. The broom staggered, lurched, and started forward. He pulled up, trying to correct for the lost height.

"CAPTIVIA INCANUS!" Malfoy bellowed again from behind him, closer now. He must be using Ginny's wand- although the pale boy's face seemed twisted with pain, now. Harry, clinging to his struggling broom, twisted his neck round, saw Draco flying back towards him through the air, wand outstretched- and on his shoulder, Wormtail's eyes two glittering points in the gloom.

"REDUCTO!" Harry slashed back at him in panic, and instantly seized by a grip of fear as he visualised the charm striking Ginny- but Malfoy's broom peeled off to the side, the curse flashing past harmlessly. Harry forced his Firebolt up and forward, struggling- and Malfoy crashed bodily into him.

"Argh!" Harry felt his hands slide from the broom, making a desperate grab for it- his hands caught the wood- and Draco's fist slammed down on his hand. Harry lashed out in his fall, clawing at Draco's robes with one hand, and swinging his wand down with the other as the dark woodland rushed up to meet them.

"Re- repellos!" He shouted, tumbling through the air. "REPELLOS!" His hand found his Firebolt and seized it, moments before a tree branch struck him hard in the small of the back, cracking under him and twisting his fall. Another cracked hard against his kneecap. Desperately Harry cast the repulsion spell on downward again, braking his terminal descent. "Repell-- aough!" He fell across a thick old tree branch, some twelve feet from the ground, and folded around it, his ribs screaming with the impact, the air knocked from his lungs- and both broom and wand were knocked from his clutching fingers as he fell, and dropped into the snow.

For a moment, he hung there, dazed- and then the adrenaline of fear pulled the life back into him. Kicking wildly, he pulled himself up from his helpless position, and dropped from the branch to the musty underbrush of the forest below- his legs crumpling under him as he landed. A dull ache resounded in his torso, and he wondered if one of his ribs was cracked.

Time for that later. Harry looked about him, trying to remember where his wand had fallen. Where had he been? He hurried to the place he thought it had landed, and dug through the powdery snow and mounds of dead leaves beneath. He didn't want to risk further magic- not to alert anyone who might be in the vicinity to his presence... there! He seized the wand, and looked about himself again. Yes, he nodded, his broom. Now he had to find Gin. Surely she and Draco couldn't be far away. She had to be all right. She had to be.

Kill the spare.

He'd flown straight into a trap, that was clear enough. His pulse pounding in his chest, the boy ran across the dark clearing to where his broom lay. When he was barely six feet from it, Malfoy charged out from between the trees, swinging his own Nimbus 2001 like a club. Harry swung his wand- but surprise and pain had dulled his reflexes, and the tightly bound tail of the broom knocked him backwards. He staggered, keeping his footing more by luck than judgement, and hurled himself sideways to avoid another blow.

Malfoy fought savagely. No comments, no insults, no magic. The glimpses Harry saw of his face as he backed away under the sheer ferocity of the mindless assault, were not of anything the Boy-Who-Lived recognised as Draco. The Slytherin drove him away from the clearing, forcing him back into the trees, back into the dark wilderland of shadows.

"Malfoy... what... the ... hell are you doing?" He hissed, seizing the broom and trying to wrest it from the other youth. Draco's eyes were wide and blank in the dim moonlight, his jaw slack. Harry pulled the Nimbus towards him, and Draco lunged, pinning Harry against a tree and pressing the broomstick against his throat, growling like an animal.

Harry struggled- but Malfoy's strength seemed almost supernatural, and his snarl was that of a wild beast. His wand slipped from his fingers, and rolled away across the forest floor. Remorselessly, he forced Harry's head back, the Gryffindor boy choking now as the shaft of the broom pressed hard against his windpipe, his lungs bitter with carbon dioxide and a strange, unidentifiable scent that seemed to come from Draco's breath, his vision fading to blackness...

With one last thought, he remembered where he had seen the queer, vacant look in his enemy's face. Many times, on Dudley's fat visage back in the summer.

He's not possessed. He's stoned.

"Argh!" Harry snarled, one final burst of fury coming from within him, and his two hands swung together up between the two of them, connecting with Malfoy's jaw and knocking him back. Harry Potter snatched the broom as Draco released it, and swung it high over Malfoy's head as the boy staggered, falling back and striking his skull on a rotten log.

Malfoy screamed in a high voice, and put his hand falteringly up to his head. Then he seemed, for the first time, to see Harry looming over him, and backed away, scrabbling in his robes for a wand and not finding one.

"What's happening?" he shrieked. "Where are we, Potter?"

"Petrificus Totalus!" A voice snapped from the edge of the clearing, and Draco's head froze, immobile. Harry spun round to face the black-robed figure.

"Protego!" He shouted, as Draco's father cast a bone-shattering jinx at him. A wandless shield charm- but, to Malfoy senior's evident surprise, he thought, it held, even in his broken weariness but he could hear other movements rustling behind him-- and then the pain came, welling up out of nowhere, his scar suddenly burning with white-hot agony. He threw his head back, screaming, and turned, his vision fading once more, but this time to blood red, and saw with failing eyes a tall, gaunt figure, its face gleaming scales of white beneath dark robes.

"No..." he whispered. He was surrounded. Even if he could fight the pain, fight the unbearable waves of it that closed over his head, he could not avoid them all, not when-- the thought fell away from him, and his legs gave way. Harry sank to his knees, then fell forward on his face into the leaf litter, his limbs twitching convulsively as if the agonising pain of the Dark Lord's presence had reached into his very spinal column and was tearing it apart.

"Night has fallen, Harry," the high, cold voice of Voldemort purred, striding forward towards him. "The long eternal dark calls to you. Hush..." Voldemort whispered, slowly drawing his yew wand from the sleeve of his robes. "And so it ends, Harry, and as I promised I shall send you to your rest, and make the world a burning pyre for your memorial."

Voldemort's wand hand gestured, and, like a marionette on a string, Harry's head turned, and saw Ginny, held in the arms of Bellatrix Lestrange and the new Death Eater he had seen in his dream, and they pawed at her, their eyes alight with savage delight.

"Keep her safe for now," the Dark Lord whispered softly, and knelt before Harry, cupping the boy's chin with one scaly hand, as the agony sheered away Harry's mind and left only the terror and pain. "For she is precious and beholden to each of us." Then, suddenly, an altogether different amusement flashed across the noseless face, and he lifted his head, considering Draco's motionless form. He nodded towards it, and then half turned his face to glance at Lucius Malfoy.

"That one," he indicated Draco once again, "Is of no further use to us," Voldemort breathed ecstatically, and his eyes glittered with a terrible mirth as he glanced back at Harry, as if confirming the culmination of a private joke between the two of them. He pointed at Draco's frozen, terrified form a third time.

"Kill the spare."

* * *

A/N: Phew, almost a week _sans_ updates, and now two in a day. Still, I've been looking forward to this moment for a long time... (he says, in a high, cold voice, accompanied by a flash of green light. ;-> )

**Wolf's scream:** Thanks for being quick enough off the mark so I've managed to get one review response in here, despite the brevity of the gap. As you've now seen, Blaise might well be all right, but it's still touch and go- and she's not the only one to have fallen foul of the ferret-faced git. On the other hand, her taking the mickey out of him is now the least of young Draco's worries. Oh and yes, Ginny was definitely a menace that evening.

On Room of Requirement(s), I thought either version was acceptable. On "the other three had accepted them", it's a fair cop. I'll add that one to the corrections list- and I may actually get around to correcting the things on the list before the end of the week! Probably not before I've hammered out a draft of **Chapter 30:** Holly and Yew though.


	30. Holly and Yew

**Chapter Thirty:** Holly and Yew

Voldemort stood over Harry in the darkness of the mountain forest, the pain burning into the boy's mind like all the heat and cold he had ever known, and looked between Ginny, held by Bellatrix Lestrange and the Auror she and he had perverted to the darkness on the one side, and on the other, Draco Malfoy, frozen, drained and helpless, lying in the snow and leaf litter, his father's wand levelled at him. The Dark Lord's smile grew, and his eyes glittered at Lucius as he ordered the man to execute his child.

"You gave your heart, your soul, all things into my keeping," he purred. "That is a heavy bargain to make, and now I call for the proof of that payment in cardinal truth. The boy is of no use to us. Kill him," he repeated.

Lucius Malfoy's eyes flickered- but only for a moment, and then all mercy vanished from them forever. Yet that moment, that infinitesimal breath of humanity was enough to draw Voldemort's wrath, and he turned.

"KILL HIM!" The Dark Lord hissed- and, for just that one instant, deep in his mind- deep in their shared mind, Harry felt Voldemort's attention shift. The pain still raged within him, all the fear and anger that Voldemort drove like a burning torrent through his enemy's thoughts- but now he saw the path to its source etched in the very agony that consumed him. As Voldemort turned his head away, the pain and rage roared through Harry's ears. As Lucius Malfoy bowed low before his master, Harry's hands, writhing and clutching in the snow, closed upon eleven-and-a-half inches of holly wood. As Lucius turned back, and raised his wand, rejecting his son utterly, Harry's mind plunged deep into the agony that overflowed within him, and flung one thought back at the Dark Lord.

"His power broken, his curse rebounded on him, he ran out into the night."

He felt the pain waver, saw Voldemort's wand arm raise, and bent all his mind on that one savage thought, the mightiest wizard of generations, shattered, broken. Harry's head snapped back, staring the Dark Lord in the eyes through the pain, and for all the nerve-shredding agony that Voldemort drove into his scar, Harry thought one thought, the harder, letting it flood out through his consciousness.

Fear of the dark. Broken. Helpless. Dying. Death. Death. All your life you've run from death. You... will... die. You died in the dark. Fleeing, trapped into my mind. Nothing. Nothing.

"Nothing!" Harry roared- and Draco's broom was in his hand, swinging through the air, the handle striking at the Dark Lord- and biting cold seared down the splintering wood, but the red hot pain that was now white hot rage burned along the connection and the Lord of the Dark Mark's hands gripped his pale forehead in agony.

"Avada..." Lucius Malfoy tried to turn his wand in mid-curse, but Harry's Banishing Charm knocked him back. Not abating his spin, the boy threw himself sideways, moments before a green flash of light scorched the snow black.

"Kill him, Simeon!" he heard Bellatrix shriek, her fingernails digging into Ginny's arm. Harry saw five specks of blood, dark in the blue-white moon and snowlight. Something sang within him, a song of ice and fury. The other- new- Death Eater lunged for him, wand at the ready.

"Enervate!" Harry hissed, and- as he had hoped, Simeon twisted out of the way of the spell before he had even registered its nature. Bellatrix, hearing only the curse and seeing the flash of magic, was tricked by her own cruelty, swinging Ginny into the path of what she believed to be Harry's attack. Yet barely had the triumph in his heart begun than the pain tore once more into his brain, and pale blossoms of agony flared across his vision.

"CRUCIO!" The ice-voice of Lord Voldemort snarled, and Harry leapt back for his life, blinded by the pain, knowing that no shield could stop that spell. The rage and hatred of the Dark Lord tore through his sanity like a knife through wet paper, and he stumbled over Draco's huddled form, and fell. His vision cleared, desperation driving away fear, and saw Voldemort, pale and terrible, tower over him.

"You think to wield power over my mind?" the Lord Voldemort almost sang, exulting in his own mad anger as much as in his triumph. "You are nothing, a boy whose power waxes only to my design. None shall stand against the terror of the greater darkness..." the voice rang in his ears and mind alike, echoes of malice cutting into his brain.

"Get out of my head!" Harry cast oblivion at the Dark Lord, but the least of shields swept his curse away, only the rage and anger holding his reason firm against the fear and the pain. "Get out of my head!" he crawled back, Draco- the petrification curse wearing away, clawing and kicking at him, desperate to get away from Voldemort, then kicked away by the Dark Lord like an unwanted cur as the black robed figure drew closer to Harry.

Somewhere behind him, he heard an explosion of magic, heard Bellatrix scream in rage- then more, the harsh crackle of power, and knew that Ginny was fighting. The warmth rushed through him, and he struck at Voldemort with magic again- again to no avail. Tom Riddle laughed, a dry chuckle that drained the warmth and cold alike from his heart and left him dead inside.

"The girl will fall before me too, Harry, and you shall not live to defend her. Your power is nothing. Nothing."

No spell I've got can hurt him... but I've got to... something he fears... the only weapon I have...

He flung his thoughts at the creature, cast them down the path of pain.

You ran into the darkness, ran away for years, Little Tommy Riddle, hiding in the mind of a child, so scared of the world for so long, nothing, nothing, just a ghost of a memory in the shadows of my mind... feel it, Tom.

Voldemort seemed to dwindle, and Harry clawed himself to his hands and knees, his left hand pressed to his scar, his wand arm outstretched but casting no spell.

"Feel it!" He roared, and put an image into his mind. Love. Compassion. Kindness. Acceptance. An old face- an image he had never remembered seeing, never even known if he had been awake to see it, but knew had been once upon a time in history. An old face, careworn and tired, looking down on a baby with love and respect. A man who had fought the darkness and knew that, one day, that child would fight it in his turn. A love that was like that of a grandfather and a brother in one from one who was neither except in their shared purpose. Acceptance. Unity. Family. Then, as he felt deep in Tom Riddle a schoolboy of the 1940s reach out to that love, he shut him out, showed him the hatred that lived in the old man who looked so compassionately on Harry Potter, the loathing for the dark wraith within him.

You will be unwanted and alone for all the days that you endure. Always in the darkness.

"Sonos!" Harry struck with a screeching cacophony of directed sound that sent Voldemort staggering, struggling to shield himself against a spell that was cast both through the air and the deadly hatred that burned along the connection between them. "What you can do to me..." he snarled, as blood and sweat poured down his face. "I can... also... do... to... you..."

"Harry!" Ginny shrieked, and he staggered, trying to pull away as blurs of movement swept like bats towards him. "Accio Harry!" Ginny shouted desperately, and he was plucked back through the air as Simeon and Lucius' Killing Curses flashed through the space where he had been. He spun, swinging out one leg as he flew through the air to kick Bellatrix solidly in the ribs as she fought to regain her wand from Ginny. The evil witch fell in the snow, and Ginny dived away from her, casting a shield charm as Malfoy and the ex-Auror struck again.

"Protego!" Harry croaked out, each spell now seeming to scrape the life from his body- but his power was waning.

"Protegius Profligato!" Ginny's adapted shield rippled out from them, and sent both Death Eaters flying backward- but Voldemort was rising, once again, tall, his back turned to the young couple- and as he raised his long, colourless hands each Death Eater rose, heeding no wound or weakness.

"Run, Ginny," Harry whispered, his voice harsh and raw. "Run... get back to Dumbledore... run. I can hold him... just long enough..."

She stared at him, her face white as the snow around them.

"I won't leave you- Harry, we go down together!"

"Get to Dumbledore, Gin!" Harry pushed her away roughly into the trees, sinking to his knees with the effort of another shield charm- this one holding barely against the three red slashes of light that rent the air. "Get away!"

"There is no strength in Dumbledore, Harry..." Slowly, the Dark Lord turned, and shadows hid the moon. The Great Shadow walked towards him, and his bare feet cold-burned the snow to glassy ice as they touched it. Again, Harry fought to unleash his mind- but now the pain had gone, and a shard of frozen hate twisted from his scar into the depths of his brain. Again came the dry chuckle. "You have learned so much, Harry Potter. It is a shame that I must end your education so soon. The ways of hate and fear come to you with a natural grace- yet it matters not that you have learned to turn that weapon upon your Lord. One weapon of so many, Harry..." the voice purred, and a hand like a spider reached out, caressing his cheek. "One of so many. Do not pretend belief in false hope." The hand turned, and an image formed between the fingers, spinning in its own light, casting shadow across the awful face so close to his own. A glass bowl, shallow and cracked, flickering in its light. "I know of Fate, Harry, I know that he cannot stand against me... and there is not one left who can."

Behind Voldemort, the three Death Eaters advanced, flanking him, Lucius and Simeon's faces bleak and lethal, betraying only their grim thirst for the kill, Bellatrix's features twisted with terrible pleasure- then the light from the illusion faded, and three shadows alone stood behind the Great Shadow.

Harry's blood pounded through his veins, and he knew- knew in his heart that only one more blow could he strike that night, before death came over him... and yet still he felt Ginny alive somewhere behind him, and he brought up his wand one last time, his eyes speaking their hatred and rejection into Voldemort's red slits.

"Naturam invigorus tordue!" Voldemort chanted, and the trees about him twisted, grasping at his weakened limbs, bending and creaking and cracking as bark and wood grew black sinew and darkened muscle. His arm was ensnared, pulled away and down even as he sought to cast his final curse at the Dark Lord- his wrist bent back until his fingers opened, and the wand fell helplessly to the snow. His left hand grabbed for it- but missed, and swung weak and helpless by his bound side. Harry's teeth flashed white in agonised defiance, even as the roots grew up and around his feet and legs, bending him low, arching his back, pulling his head upward to gaze, impotent, into the eyes of the Dark Lord.

"Harry!" He heard Ginny croak, and knew that she had not fled.

Why couldn't you live your life?

Voldemort took one step nearer, Harry's wand vanishing beneath the black folds of his robes, and his left hand flicked out, cold and scaly around Harry's throat. The boy grit his teeth as Voldemort's long fingers stroked his cheek once more.

"For so many years waiting a dead memory within living flesh..." The livid-white features contorted into a smile, and the dark lord's eyes brightened. "So many years you have been life to me, your every living moment bearing me on to the moment of our glorious triumph... so many years, Harry..." the voice throbbed with warped emotion. "So many years until our fate could be decided. So many years until my debt to you might be repaid. So many years until I could spare you from the agony and torment of life in the darkness I shall create. I have been waiting for this moment for so long a time."

"I... I bet you have, Tom." Harry's heart hammered in his chest. He locked eyes with Voldemort. This thing killed my parents.

"Now, Harry, you shall die, as the end must come." Lord Voldemort chuckled, pointed teeth protruding from between his lips. "I shall use the killing curse on you, and this time nothing will stop it working. However... if you would prefer to avoid the pleasure of renewed acquaintance with Ranbrot's Cruciatus, you will beg!" Suddenly the savagery tore through the voice's velvet hatred. The cold hand tightened around Harry's throat, slamming the back of his head hard against the tree trunk behind him. A low murmur of amusement rippled through the Death Eaters. Voldemort acknowledged it with the faintest of nods, then pushed his flat face into Harry's own. "Beg, Potter!" He snarled. "Beg that I show the mercy not to return the favour for thirteen years of bodiless agony. Beg that I grant you swift oblivion... for believe me, Harry, you should not like the world that I am going to make for your friends to live in."

Harry was choking. Voldemort sneered, and the light in his eyes burned with the madness he had put into Malfoy. "Oh yes, I shall show them the reward for friendship with the Boy Who Lived, for the compassion they gave us, the love we had never known... The mudblood wench, she shall be first... then the traitorous Weasley clan, all of them shall follow the first into darkness, and last of all young Virginia. All of them I have seen in your mind. All of them." Harry reached a hand feebly to try to loosen the grip on his throat, but as the Dark Lord spoke those words, almost of its own volition, the hand curled into a fist. "That is," Voldemort hissed, seeing Harry's reaction, "After my Death Eaters have satisfied certain mortal urges, naturally." Harry heard Ginny's breath catch in her throat, and as the moon came back into view saw Bellatrix drift over the ground, tongue playing over her teeth, eyes fixed upon her plaything. "Oh, Harry," Voldemort purred. "She shall learn so much at their hands, as my star rises to its position forever ascendant in the heavens. So much before her worth is spent and she follows you into the lesser darkness."

"No..." Harry wheezed, and the Dark Lord released his grip on the boy's throat. "You're wrong... your star is dead!"

Harry's free arm swung, his fist connecting with Voldemort's chin with a sharp click. The Dark Lord staggered back a pace, his hood falling back, and the triumphant gleam in his eyes turned to rage. Harry scarcely noticed, his own eyes blazing green, all fear gone as he looked death full in the face. "You can kill people! Big deal. You can hurt us, but that's all. All you can ever do. All you can do is try to pull us down!" His mind raged against the connection, tore it open, poured into Voldemort's mind all his contempt and despite. "You're nothing. Nothing. How ever many you kill, you can't change who we are, can't make yourself mean anything... and you never will!"

"ENOUGH!" Voldemort's stance was rigid in a second, his wand levelled at Harry's temple- and now all the exultation and cruel glee was gone from his suddenly harsh, snarling voice. "I tire of your existence, Potter." The red eyes were flat. "Too long have you sat in the web of my thoughts. Your plaything I give to my Death Eaters, as a reward for their service... but as for you... your ending shall bring greater pleasure to me than all the fear and pain your weak mind has ever yet offered up to me." He tried to force his furious countenance back into its earlier smug leer- not with much success. "Goodbye, Potter."

Intellectually, Harry knew that what happened next could not have taken more than two-and-a-half seconds, yet it felt as though whole minutes passed by while he stared at the thirteen-and-a-half inches of phoenix-feather cored yew aimed directly at his head. That wand was going to kill him. That wand, brother to his own wand lying uselessly under Voldemort's grip, was going to kill him, and there was not a thing he could do to stop it. The path into Voldemort's mind was closed, even if he had the strength left to travel it. His wand- lost. His body, trapped. His mind raced over every spell he'd ever learned. Defence Against the Dark Arts. Well, one small, detached corner of his mind noted, it probably was no surprise he'd failed to defend against them, given his teaching over the years. Quirrell, Lockhart, Barty Crouch, Umbridge, Milner... half of them had tried to kill him themselves, or nearly done it without meaning to, like Lockhart.

Focus, Potter.

Lockhart.

Voldemort cleared his throat and began to speak.

Lockhart.

That wand, brother to his own. Barely enough power left to properly shape a spell. The wand chooses the wizard. Lockhart.

And in an instant, he knew. It was stupid. Ridiculous. But it was a very human thing to do.

Harry's hand flashed out, seizing the reverse end of the wand that touched his temple, and, gambling for a life he had already surrendered, poured out as much magic as he could release in one ridiculous, misspoken spell.

"Brachia emmendo!" The magic burst from him, wrenching through his flesh. He felt the wand revolt, struggle to re-establish its true polarity- and he fought it, driving the spell back down towards the Dark Lord.

"Avada Ke... " Voldemort stopped in mid-curse, his wand hand shaking violently before, almost comically, flopping bonelessly to his side. He took two steps back, staring down at himself in disbelief. A great wave of cold burned through Harry's mind, and the last reserves of his strength flowed finally forth from him.

Harry reversed Voldemort's wand with a quick flick of his left wrist, and then swung it to cover his own lost wand, now revealed as the Dark Lord stepped away.

"Accio wand!"

If there is any strength in me, let it come to me now. I will not let her be taken.

"Master, beware!" Lucius cried out, too late, and three wands- Bellatrix having summoned hers from Ginny's side- whipped out to point at the Boy Who Lived. There was no time for fear.

Voldemort saved him. As wrath overcame his momentary shock, the Lord of the Dark Mark lunged forward, his face disbelieving, all the rage that his triumph should be marred with this indignity burning against Harry's mind, his undamaged arm clawing for the boy's face, and the Death Eaters hesitated, realising that their primed Unforgivable Curses would now have struck their own master. Harry, a wand in his free arm and catching his own wand in his ensnared right hand, aimed both at the monster in front of him.

Stereo. Here's a Muggle concept for you.

"REDUCTO!"

The curse blasted out of him with tremendous force, surging through two identical wands, both attuned to his- to their- magic. Ripples of magic arced between them, his muscles wrenching in terrible spasms, pouring his very life into the wands of rebirth and immortality as they clung to his fingers. Lucius Malfoy let fly a Killing Curse, the green light ensnared in the growing web of magic before him and rebounding off into the night. The enchanted trees which held him crumbled and fell away like charcoal as the blast's backwash struck them, the magic which bound them collapsing away, and as the nexus of power drew his free arms up, the wand-tips touched- and the blast of raw energy that was something more and less than magic struck at Voldemort with the force of lightning. He shrieked in agony, crashing backward through the clearing, sending Death Eaters scattering like ninepins.

Harry ran, not waiting to see the result of his spell, barely able to see past the red spots in his vision, his heart thumping out-of-rhythm, the blood streaming from nose and eyes and ears. He stumbled, tripping over something lying across the path.

Ginny.

More dead than alive, a creature of adrenaline and need, Harry seized the half-stunned girl, carrying her bodily away through the trees. As the darkness closed in about them, a dreadful scream of hatred rose up behind, an ache of hatred burning through the world.

"KILL HIM! Let the agony he feels..."

Harry didn't listen. Half leading, half dragging the exhausted girl through the woods, Harry cast his eyes about desperately for his broom, not wanting to risk the power drain of a summoning charm, lest he not have enough strength left to fly. There were footsteps behind him now- but finally he saw it, resting against the very tree where he'd fallen so many centuries of minutes ago. He swung the broom into a flight position then whirled it, cracking the handle against the head of the Death Eater- who went sprawling to the ground.

"On you get, Gin," Harry pushed Ginny over the broom and mounted himself, pushing off from the ground. Where the power to fly- the power to breathe- the power to go on living another moment came, he could not have said. The pain in his mind and body was like a storm on clifftops, lifting itself high above the very chasm which gave it birth. Just as the magic lifted him he heard the words behind him. The Death Eater- Simeon- had rolled into a sitting position and struck out with his wand.

"Avada..."

I am so very tired.

Harry closed his eyes.

"CRUCIO!" The Death Eater screamed, his back arching in agonising torment, and Harry looked down in disbelief. His face twisted in fear, Draco half staggered from the trees, keeping his wand on Simeon, incapacitating him as Harry's Firebolt rose up into the air.

"Stop it!" Harry shouted, flailing at Malfoy. making the broom dip and weave madly. "Stop it!" He snarled, punching Malfoy hard across the face, sending the blonde Slytherin sprawling across the ground once more. "Not the Unforgivables, never!"

"Take me with you!" Draco cast a fearful look back into the clearing. Light was burning, red and hateful, and there were feet moving through the darkness. Harry felt Ginny's limp body lying across the broom. He knew now that Draco- however it had been done- had not acted entirely of his own will.

"No." He told the other boy, a deadness in his voice.

"Please!" Malfoy's fingers scrabbled at the broom, clinging on as it lifted, bucking and wavering under the weight, unable to gain height. "They'll kill me! I didn't mean it!" His voice cracked. "He put his voice inside my head... he promised me power... but all I could hear was his voice!"

"The broom can't carry three!" Harry lifted a hand high to strike Draco down- but Ginny stirred on the broom, and snatched the wand from his fingers. A loud crack sounded through the air- and a green flash arced through the air close to them, as Lucius Malfoy lumbered through the trees, one leg dragging behind him awkwardly. The white ferret that had been Draco squeaked in terror, scrabbling its way desperately into the folds of Harry's robes, and the broom bore them up and away as another curse flashed by, closer still, and Ginny slumped once more over the Firebolt. They rose up through the trees into a glorious night, the snowfall ended, the stars fixed and crystalline overhead. Harry turned the Firebolt for Hogwarts and put on speed, the green flame from another Death Eater's curse crackling inches behind him as he flew away.

"Harry..." Ginny's hand found his. He could barely see her, the stark night burning his mind with its uncompromising reality, the world of living things a distant dream of pain. He could not speak. Blackness reached up to meet him.

The Firebolt flew between the branches of a large tree, only instinct keeping them from disaster. A Tawny Owl hooted in alarm, and something white and viscous splattered across Ginny's head and robes, earning a weak cry of disgust.

"Eurgh! What are you doing? Flying like a pregnant Greenback is what you're doing, Potter. How the devil do you ever catch the Snitch?" He felt one arm grip him tightly.

"I... I can't... keep... going..." there was nothing before him now. No light, no life. Even the pain had gone.

"We can." The fierce voice brought him back, and the arm tightened about him. Their eyes met, and Harry remembered that he was human. Blood stained her face, and her own body shook with pain and exhaustion.

The broom levelled out. In the distance, Harry could see the moonlight reflecting off the waters of the lake, and above it, dark against the deep blue sky, the towering shapes and twinkling welcoming window lights of Hogwarts. Wrapped tight around one leg, a wretched strip of white fur squealed in terror at the water below.

Harry leant forward, his arms both reached round Ginny already, holding the broom on course, and nestled his body against hers, one certain thought driving away the pain and the dark.

"We're going home."

Harry powered the broom across the lake, rather hopeful of no more sudden movements from either Ginny or his unwelcome rodent companion. Having to persuade the Giant Squid not to eat or mate with any of them now, if they were to fall into the water, was not something he could view with equanimity after the exhausting battle with Voldemort. Still- andhe felt in his robe to make sure, he had not only fought the Dark Wizard and survived, he had won- and taken a valuable trophy to boot. The thoughts gave him an idea, and he angled the Firebolt higher, towards one of the taller towers- though still in the shadow of the great Astronomy Tower, towards a balcony on which he had once stood looking out at the night.

"Potter, land, for Merlin's sake. Stop grandstanding." Ginny hissed at him faintly. For several reasons, only one of which was that he knew it would irritate the battered, unwell, and he strongly suspected terrified ferret which was currently nibbling his shoes, Harry began to laugh out loud.

* * *

"Why the HELL... Sorry, Professor Dumbledore, but why the seven shades of sodding dragon dung didn't you warn us about this sooner, Snape?" Milner leant forward over the table, scowling furiously at the Potions Master. Several of the ornate and esoteric trinkets with which Dumbledore liked to decorate his study jumped a couple of inches into the air. Snape, himself clearly rattled, stood up and straightened his robes.

"As the Headmaster knows," He looked pointedly towards Dumbledore, who sat in his own chair, one hand resting on Hermione's shoulder, the other stroking his white moustache thoughtfully, "I am only able to extract... a certain quantity of information from the Dark Lord without arousing his suspicions. I was aware that the Dark Lord-" Milner winced- "That You-Know-Who," Snape rapped out boredly, misunderstanding until Milner mouthed the word "Tommy" across the table at him, "planned some further action against the Potter boy, and that Draco Malfoy was involved. His hostility towards Potter is as well-known as it is understandable."

Ron and Hermione exchanged disgusted glances. Milner had dispatched Luna to join Neville and Blaise in the hospital wing as soon as Snape and Madam Pomfrey had pronounced it safe to move them. Hermione, not wanting to take any of the Healer's attention from the injured trio, had conjured a splint for her broken arm, and accompanied Ron to the office with Milner,who, member of the Order or no, wasdemanding answers.Professor McGonagall had attempted to protest the move- but Hermione had defied even her. As soon as Ron and the rest had arrived, Dumbledore had listened, then called to Fawkes, sending the Phoenix to find Alastor Moody and Kingsley Shacklebolt. Moments later, the golden bird had returned to its perch, and trilled a message to the Headmaster. Then, he had tinkered with several pieces of intricate clockwork for several long minutes, before pronouncing that the school's wards were now inviolate. Only a pupil would be able to pass through them. Finally, after what seemed an age, he had asked each of them to tell the full facts of the tale.

"I spoke to Mr Malfoy myself, urged that he be wary of any such action as best I could without hinting to him that I knew the source of any such plots." Snape paced to and fro, his face bitter with anger and some unidentifiable emotion. If it had been anyone but Snape, Hermione would have thought she saw guilt, and anger at his own failure. "I watched him for signs of magical interference, but it never crossed my mind that the Dark Lord would drug him like a common Muggle!"

"Oh, brilliant." Milner glanced at Dumbledore, and then at Ron and Hermione. "You were about right to insist on coming here with us tonight, lass," he remarked to the wounded girl. "The Potions Master never thought of Zephyr Caldat, he didn't, no." The sarcasm in his voice rose several notches.

"That potion has not been brewed in centuries," Snape rounded on him. "No one but a fool would wish that much power on a foe, and no one would be fool enough to take it for themselves!"

"Oh, so you've been working for a fool and teaching another one," Milner snapped, disgustedly. "For crying out flipping loud!" He glared at Snape. "I'd heard it, hadn't I? Harry didn't trust you, boyo..."

"Aloysius..." Dumbledore spoke calmly. "Harry's personal feud with Severus is not under discussion here."

"No, you're bloody right, Albus. He's not a traitor, he's too damned thick for that."

Despite himself, Ron smiled, but only for a moment.

"Forget whose fault it is! Find them!" The redhead rounded on Snape. "Or you'll find you've got more than kissing Voldemort's verrucas to worry about!"

"Mr Weasley is quite right." Dumbledore rose, cutting off Snape's retort with an almost dismissive wave of the hand. "I do not think we can wait for Alastor. The important thing now is to find Miss Weasley and Mr Potter..."

The round window high in the study wall shattered, and the loud crack was succeeded by a light tinkling as the fragments of glass rained down on those below, giving rise to squeaks of alarm and scrambles to cover in neighbouring pictures from the portraits on the wall. Everyone's eyes turned skyward as a heavily laden and somewhat unsteady broomstick swayed slowly down from the ceiling, the two figures slumped across it sliding down the handle and tumbling to the floor. Ron quickly ran to Ginny's side, feeling for her pulse, then looking up at Harry and grinning in sheer relief. Dumbledore sat slowly back in his chair, a smile flickering across his face once again.

The Boy-Who-Lived crawled across the floor, and shook one leg violently. A small white rodent scurried from it, and dived frantically beneath the skirts of Snape's robes. Milner followed it with his eyes, pursing his lips with a questioning look on his face. That done, Harry gripped the arm of a chair and slowly, painfully, hauled himself to his feet. His face was dirty and bloodied, his glasses cracked across and crazed, his hair no worse than usual, which was bad enough, and his robes torn, but there was an air of triumph about him.

Ginny sat up, suddenly, and blinked at him.

"Focus, Weasley," he told her with a faint grin, in a harsh, croaking voice that made teachers and students alike exchange shocked glances. Ginny grimaced, and he limped over to her, helping her to her feet and hugging him tightly.

"Do that again and you're dead," she commented, surprising him a little.

"What?" he whispered.

"Tell me to leave you behind," she told him, pushing his ruined spectacles back, and matching his gaze. "Like I said... we... go... down... together.

Harry blinked, and for a moment, their faces seemed to fall towards each other. Then Harry Potter remembered that he was standing in the Headmaster's study, surrounded by his other two best friends and four of his teachers, and he gave Ginny a light squeeze before disentwining himself and snaking an arm around her waist. In a moment, the questions would begin. He could see them in all the faces- even Snape. He fumbled in his robes.

"Um... sorry I'm late," he coughed, and blood spattered on the carpet. McGonagall made a faint, shocked sound.

"You should go to the hospital wing, Potter..." she began. He waved a hand.

"Sorry, Professor Dumbledore," Harry wavered. "I know we're not supposed to leave the grounds without permission... it's against the rules, isn't it?"

"It is indeed, Harry," Dumbledore murmured, his eyes twinkling. "I suspect, however, that your motives were entirely excusable."

"Well, you know how it is, Professor, I just had to go for a Butterbeer. Oh, and then I got into a bit of a race with Draco here... and I'm afraid I had a bit of a punch up with a chap called Tommy Riddle, but that wasn't very important." Harry broke off his chatter for a moment to mutter irritably, as his investigations of his robes produced his wand. "Wrong one... hang on a minute... sorry sir, I forgot to mention, I managed to get hold of something you might be interested in today. Well, actually, it's more for Fawkes than for you, really sir, but anyway..." he produced a slightly battered wand, fairly humming with power, and laid it down on Dumbledore's desk.

"Harry..." Hermione breathed. "That isn't what I think it is, is it?"

Harry's smile turned just a bit wolfish as Milner and Snape leaned in to look. In Snape's eyes recognition flashed briefly, followed by disbelief.

"I hear Phoenixes use their old feathers to line their roosts sometimes, Professor." Harry swayed against Ginny slightly, and she realised the reason for his cocky, swaggering behaviour. It was an act, plain and simple. Harry had things to say, and had to keep going somehow. "I do sort of need my wand, and I think Fawkes would be offended if I threw it away anyhow," he rambled, "But the chap who owned this wasn't doing any good with it, so I thought I'd take it off his hands. I wondered if Fawkes would like the core back." Ginny felt the warning signs, and frantically caught her brother's eye, gesturing towards one of the empty chairs with her free hand. Ron nodded, and brought the chair forward just as Harry's legs gave way and he sat heavily back into it. "Thanks Ron."

"No problem mate." Ron whistled.

"Bloody hell. You actually nicked his wand... Bloody hell. Sorry, Professor."

"Not at all, Mr Weasley," Dumbledore's eyes were fixed on the wand, and his shoulders seemed to be shaking with mirth. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, sounding stunned, Snape began to splutter.

"Do you have any idea how... how personal a wand is to a purebred wizard, Potter?" Snape choked out. "Lord Voldemort's rage will be terrible... and he has a very long arm, as we have only recently seen."

"Bendy too." Harry sniggered, somewhat hysterically. "You might want to ask Madam Pomfrey if you can take him some Skele-gro next time you go spying."

"What?" Snape blinked.

Harry ignored him, instead taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. "Voldemort values power and possessions, not people... terror and influence are his friends and family. If this is payback," a grim note entered his voice,"I've only just started." Then his head fell forward. Concern flashed across his friends' faces, but Milner stepped across, passing his hand across Harry's forehead.

"It's all right. He's sleeping naturally. Worn out, poor boy- and he's depleted his reserves quite considerably." He smiled at Ginny. "Dinna fash yersel', lassie. Yon wee sassenach laddie'll pull through, ne'er fear." Then he turned to Dumbledore. "So, this is this Secret Order of the Birdy or whatyamacallit of yourn then? Some secret." Milner glanced at the unconscious Harry, then at Ginny, then at the white ferret now sitting trembling on Snape's shoulder, and sighed. "Oh, what the hell. I've got nothing better to die for at the moment. Count me in, then."

* * *

**A/N: **I shall now claim that Vernon referring to the Dark Lord 'Foldydork' in Chapter Two was foreshadowing. No one will believe me. Anyway, to the reviews: 

**AriKitten:** I haven't quite finished with young Ms. Zabini yet... and kill Malfoy? Oh no. At least, not yet. The little basket's got a few charges to face first.

**Mademoiselle Phantom: **Erk, that gives me a lot to live up to. Still, thanks :-)

**Michael: **They do tend to drag out, particularly if the pace starts to pick up. If I spot a sentence making a bid for immortality, I tend to drop a full stop on its head, but they like to play all sorts of cunning tricks with subordinate clauses, sentences do.

**DaBear & Mew Hermione: **There's going to be a bit of a break from the darkness now. Still, glad you're enjoying it. The next chapter will be sad, but not exactly dark... and then we've got the Christmas holidays coming up. Incidentally, can anyone remember what the weather was like in England, Christmas Day 1996? Oh well, I'll probably go for 'deep and crisp and even'. It certainly didn't snow, I don't think, but reality is negotiable. Harry probably deserves a happy Christmas before... hmm.

**Wolf's scream: **She's female in this fic as well- I'm sure I've used the female pronoun before... I suspect that bit of description was originally meant for Pigwidgeon, and then I moved it. Gah. Well, as you see, 30's up now, so the error-checking behemoth can be launched. I'll even do away with the mistake no one's mentioned yet- Harry's glasses change shape for no reason between chapters one and two "his round-framed spectacles" and "his chunky, square-lenses glasses" or some such.


	31. Voices Singing of a New World

**Chapter Thirty-One:** Voices Singing of a New World

There was a horrible taste in his mouth, a sweet, cloying flavour that made him shudder and make a faint retching sound, and turn his head to one side. He felt cool linen against his cheek, and twisted his face back upright. Voldemort must have stunned him, he had to fight back- he groped for his wand in the snow- and his hands clawed at bed sheets, his legs were pinned under heavy blankets. He struggled to sit up, and opened encrusted eyelids. It felt as though some massive swinging lead had been tied to the back of his skull, and as he pulled forward it danced, madly, the world spinning around him- and he fell back against the pillow.

He was in a long, dark room, the light of the moon and snow shining stark and unforgiving through the windows. Harry stared up at a familiar white ceiling for a moment, and then, moving suddenly, trying to cheat the giddiness, rolled over to one side. A tidal wave of gravity rose up and smashed on the breakwaters before him, and pink spots flared across his dim vision. He swallowed- and instantly regretted it.

"Ugh, my mouth tastes like sugar-coated cabbage..." Harry cursed, more out of imagination than actual experience- and winced at the soreness of his throat.

"Lovely..." a raw-edged voice creaked quietly from nearby, and broke off with a fit of coughing. "Remind me not to kiss you for a bit then..."

"Ginny?" He waited. "Hospital Wing?"

"Good guess." It was difficult to guess at the voice's tone. "Ow... I see what you mean about the throat. It's that ointment of Madam Pomfrey's- we burst..." the voice broke off to cough again. "A few blood vessels... too much power..."

"Don't speak too much," he whispered. Then, after a moment. "Got any water over there?"

A faint sound of wordless exasperation floated across from the next bed, and the blankets were thrown back. A small figure in pale blue pyjamas, hair hanging loose and dark in the dim light, stumped across to him through the dark, and set a glass jug of water on the bedside table. She sat on the bed, tilting him down towards her, and poured him a glass.

"Quiet..." Ginny whispered. "Neville and the others are asleep." She held the glass out to him, and- making an effort, Harry pushed himself up on one elbow and took it gratefully in a shaking hand. The water was cool and crisp and numbing- raw against the skin of his throat and the roof of his mouth, but a blissful relief which took away the horrendous aftertaste of the medicine.

"What time is it?" Harry murmured. Ginny turned her face to him, and flinched, rubbing her shoulder and neck.

"About three in the morning," she muttered. "Thursday morning," the girl added after a moment, and another wince. "You missed most of Wednesday, I'm afraid. Ouch," she hissed. "Sorry... bloody Bellatrix Lestrange. She's got a kick like a mule."

"Face to match," Harry grinned in the dark. "You're all right, though?" he whispered, urgently. Ginny put a cool hand to his cheek.

"Fine. Nothing Madam Pomfrey couldn't fix up."

"How about the others?" Harry had seen Ron and Hermione in Dumbledore's office, he remembered, with infuriating vagueness. Ginny shifted position, leaning against him. If it weren't for the ache in his ribs, he would have found it extremely pleasant.

"Oh, Ron's fine. Just cuts and bruises," she chuckled fondly. "Hermione had a broken arm- Madam Pomfrey fixed it properly yesterday morning, and my leg at the same time."

"What happened to your leg?" Harry put his glass down on the table and hurriedly felt along Ginny's right knee and thigh.

"The other leg," Ginny remarked, in a startled- but somewhat amused tone, and he reached across her lap, feeling the other side through her pyjama trousers, searching for break or injury.

"What happened?" Harry repeated, in concerned tones.

"Little incident getting thrown through a hole in the castle? Draco Malfoy?" she said, in a slightly odd, but not displeased voice, "Not a bad break."

"Where?"

"Just above the ankle," she told him. "It's always my blasted ankles, isn't it?"

"I'll buy you steel knee socks for Christmas." He pulled himself round her into a sitting position, and ran his hands down her left leg.

"Harry, she fixed it, it's gone," Ginny told him with a low chuckle. "Just throbs a bit- and I can't put much weight on it for a couple of days... but there's nothing much to feel- although do go on, by all means-" the amusement in her voice grew more overt, "Assuming my alleged injury isn't just an excuse for your wanton lusts, of course," she added, leaning back slightly, her dark eyes sparkling in the gloom.

"Sorry, what?" Harry- less than fully awake, sat up again, resting one hand on her good kneecap for support. "Excuse for what?"

"Having such fun fondling my poor battered lower limbs, of course," Ginny added in a husky voice, then coughed again as he pulled himself backwards. "Ugh," she tried to clear her throat. "Sorry, that sounded even more perverted than I meant it to. You've not drunk all that water, have you?"

He passed her the glass and, although the room was no longer spinning quite so violently, sank back into the pillows.

"Sorry about that," Harry apologised, blushing furiously. "I got... a little carried away there."

"Get much more carried away, and Ron'll be an uncle," Ginny murmured into the glass. Harry's face flamed even more, and he flinched, holding a hand to his chest with a pained expression.

"Gah, don't make me laugh, evil woman..." He felt his ribs gingerly. "I had a disagreement with a tree."

"Oh well, we can wait till they've healed, I suppose," the red-haired girl remarked in a deadpan tone. Harry's torso shook slightly, and a faint mutter of repressed laughter escaped his lips.

"Git..." he managed. "Git."

"Charmed, as ever, Mr Potter."

She waited for a long moment, until Harry regained his composure.

"How about Neville and Luna?" he asked, finally, his voice serious again.

"They should be fine," Ginny pointed at two humped shapes in beds further along the ward, one turning slightly. "A bit concussed and dented, but they were up and about yesterday- better than me, actually." She looked serious. "I think they're a bit worried about Blaise still, though."

"Blaise?" Harry half-sat up again. "What happened to Blaise?"

"The ferret." Ginny's lip twisted. "He picked a fight with her in the Slytherin Common Room before coming upstairs to annoy us. She'll be all right, Madam Pomfrey says- but she's still unconscious."

Harry looked downward for a moment, his heart beat quickening.

"Malfoy..." he growled.

"He's not going to be enjoying himself any time soon," Ginny told him, with some satisfaction. "Suspended. Sounds as though McGonagall wanted him sent straight off to Azkaban, but Snape wouldn't allow it. He kept going on about it not being Malfoy's fault, Voldemort drugged him, again and again..." she pushed a hand through her hair in irritation.

"It's true, I suppose," Harry added, grudgingly.

"Anyway, there's going to be a hearing late next January. So at least we'll have a few weeks at school next term without the little creep," she told him, gleefully, and leant back on her own elbows beside him.

"I wish I'd blasted him clean across the forest last night," Harry snapped. Ginny put a finger to his lips.

"Quieter, Harry," she hissed. "Anyway, you didn't."

He looked at her, and, frowning slightly, reached up a hand to brush the hair away from her face. Her face was a pale blur in the moonlight, features softened by his poor vision.

"Only thanks to you transfiguring him." Harry stroked her cheek gently. A thought struck him. "How come? I'd have thought you'd be the first to want to see the back of him for good?"

Ginny pulled away from him slightly- then turned, lying on her side on the very edge of the bed, facing him, outside the blankets, and looked him in the eyes.

"You're right, Harry," she told him seriously. "I'd have killed him several times over last night, and liked it. I could have left him to die back there with Voldemort without a second thought... and I'd not have regretted doing it for a moment..." a haunted, introspective look crossed her face for a moment, and she considered. "Maybe," she whispered, "but..." she put a hand to his cheek in turn. "You would. Later, you would have." She sat up abruptly, swinging her legs back out over the side of the bed. "And you wouldn't have been able to go back and save him now."

Harry put out a hand and laid it on her arm. She turned, and they looked at one another in the silent gloom for a long time.

Then, slowly, a little unsteadily, she got back to her feet.

"We'd better get some sleep now," Ginny murmured quietly, and started back towards her own bed.

"All right," Harry whispered. "But remind me about that kiss after I've brushed my teeth in the morning," he added.

"Will do." She paused, climbing back into bed. "Good night, Harry." She hesitated. "And... well, thanks. For coming after me."

"No problem, Gin." Harry waited a moment, and rolled over on to his other side, before offering, over his shoulder, a sly grin on his face: "You can thank me when my ribs are better."

An inarticulate splutter rewarded him.

Game, set, and match.

"For Merlin's sake..." Neville groaned from a bed at the other side of the room. "Will you two just go to sleep?"

* * *

HARRY POTTER FACES HE

WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED!

The Boy-Who-Lived Lives Again!

_Breaking news from Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Last night, after several months of mounting terror and violence across Great Britain, the Famous Boy-Who-Lived fought the Dark Wizard known to most as He Who Must Not Be Named, and a full coven of thirteen Death Eaters, to a standstill in a pitched battle, before forcing him to flee._

_The Daily Prophet reports on this possible turning point in the war against the Dark Lord, a war which has surely now found its hero. Earlier in the night, several Death Eaters had attacked the school, demonstrating once again the complete inadequacy of the security arrangements protecting our children from harm, and injuring several students, including Hermione Grainger, Harry Potter's long time girlfriend Ronald Weasley, and his sister, Virgin Weasley. At the dramatic conclusion to this assault, and while at least six Death Eaters (according to eyewitnesses) fought Harry Potter in pitched combat, Miss Wealsey was abducted and taken into the forest, where Harry Potter followed her, once again displaying the chivalry and bravery that has made him so dear to our hearts since his first confrontation with the Dark Lord... and where he came, once again, face to face with You-Know-Who._

_While the valiant Virgenia held back a dozen lethally deadly assassins of the Dark Lord, Harry himself fought He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in a dangerous duel of powerful magics._

_The full details of this battle are not known, as, beyond a brief statement to her teachers upon their return to school- a copy of which was obtained by an undisclosed senior source in the Ministry of Magic, Miss Weasley- who earlier this year amazed many with her assistance to Harry Potter in his battle with a ruthless sea monster- has not made herself available for comment, and Harry himself, is, of course, naturally resting after his tiring ordeal. What is known, however, is that after defeating You-Know-Who in a contest whose pyrotechnic results were seen as far away as the village of Hogsmeade, Mr Potter and Miss Wea sley returned to their lessons- with the wand of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named as their prize._

_We talk to several noted figures in the Ministry of Magic and the Wizengamot, and ask: Is this the beginning of the end for You-Know-Who?_

_Continued on Page 5. Editorial: Is Hogwarts still safe for our children? Page 14._

_Eye on Tradition: Wands and their Meanings. Page 54._

_Lifestyle: The Loves and Tragedies of Harry Potter, on Page 34, 35, and 37._

_Young Witch and Wizard: NEW! Follow the full-colour moving comic strip adventures of CAPTAIN HENRIK WARLOCK, England Quidditch Captain, as he fights evil and rights wrongs in 1745, battling the Dark Wizard Grride'ath! Excitement and thrills for the younger reader in our comic strip section._

_

* * *

_

When Harry next woke, the sun was shining through the infirmary windows. He sat up with a jolt, and looked into the face of Professor Dumbledore. The old man leant against the opposite wall, spectacles perched on his nose, muttering into his beard and apparently reading the instructions on the back of a packet of cereal.

Harry felt his forehead, curiously, but apart from a certain light-headedness, the giddiness he'd felt earlier seemed to have gone. His scar felt cool- and oddly distant. When he pressed his fingers against it, he felt a momentary flicker in the distance of his mind- anger and something very like fear.

"Good... morning? Professor?" he attempted. Dumbledore gave a faint- and, Harry suspected, feigned start, and looked up at him.

"Ah, good afternoon, Harry," he smiled fondly, and stroked a hand through his white beard. "It's almost two o'clock. I was beginning to wonder if you planned to sleep the whole day..." his eyebrows quirked slightly- "Although Miss Weasley informs me that you were awake and... dear me, what was the word she used... ah yes, awake and 'frisky' in the early hours of the morning." Dumbledore chuckled. Harry's face turned scarlet, and he hurriedly looked round. The next bed was empty.

"I just..." he flushed again, and looked around, "She was... well, you see..." he sighed. Somehow he suspected that Dumbledore 'saw' very well. "Where is she, Professor?" Harry put on his spectacles- repaired by someone- and blinked. "I'll 'frisky' her," he muttered under his breath, trying not to smile.

"Young Virginia- and your other two colleagues-" Dumbledore indicated Neville and Luna's empty beds- "Have been discharged. They do still have a number of classes to attend, after all." The old man smiled. "Goblin-jaw toffee?" he produced a large foil-wrapped slab from a pocket. Harry thanked him, taking a piece, and rapidly learning that it was well named. While he fought a battle for the freedom of his teeth possibly more vicious than he had fought two nights ago, he drew the curtains around his bed and hurriedly dressed in the spare robes someone had thought to bring down from his rooms. A thought struck him.

"What happened to my DA uniform?" he put his head out through the curtains.

"It is being cleaned." Dumbledore glanced up at him. The old man had made his way down the ward to the only remaining occupied bed, where a pale faced figure lay, head swathed in bandages. "I understand Dobby hopes to have it wearable again at some point- although the ferret droppings adherent to one trouser leg may provide a challenge to his skills.

"Ah." Harry pulled his head back in. "I see." He nodded, calmly, and, not for the first time in his life wishing for a reliable short-term amnesia charm, picked up his wand and slipped it into his pocket. "Any change?" he asked, emerging from the curtains and approaching Blaise's bed.

Dumbledore shook his head solemnly. Harry looked into the old man's face- and saw something in it that he had grown all too familiar with in the months since Sirius' death and the Department of Mysteries. He coughed slightly, and the Headmaster looked up at him, startled.

"It's not your fault, sir," Harry said quietly, and reached out a hand towards the Professor's arm.

Dumbledore gave him a strange, speculative look, and then sat down in a chair next to Blaise.

"Every student in this school is my responsibility, Harry," he whispered. "I do not take that responsibility lightly." Gently, he touched the girl's cheek. "But she is no longer in danger," the Professor seemed to draw strength from that. "And you, Harry?" Dumbledore asked. "I can see that you are physically none the worse for your experiences..." he looked at the boy through bushy white eyebrows, thoughtfully. "Once again I am in your debt," the old man chuckled sadly. "I had anticipated an attack on the school, not an attempt on your life. Foolishness- but I was blinded by the thought of my own weakness, Harry," he confessed, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder and giving him a penetrating look. "My fear that Voldemort would use what he has learned, to attack the school, to kill..." he looked around himself, for a moment a haunted look coming into his clever eyes. "To do so much harm- it occupied much of my thoughts."

"He tricked me, too," Harry protested. "All that 'kill the spare' business. He wanted to make me be afraid for Ginny-" he paused. "I'd have followed her anyway," he added, after a moment's thought. "But I don't think Tom would understand that."

"None the less, Harry," Dumbledore sighed, getting to his feet once more, "This is the third occasion that Voldemort has succeeded in luring you away from this school- and each time, I have been unable to prevent it."

"And each time I've got back alive," Harry rounded on him. "Professor- I'm not trying to impress anyone, whatever Snape says," he added, disgustedly, before continuing, matching Dumbledore's gaze with his own. "I'm terrified. Ginny and I only got away by luck and the skin of our teeth--"

"I think you may find it difficult to convince your friends of that, Harry," Dumbledore smiled. "I fear the Daily Prophet has risen to the challenge of your... incomplete report of the night's events with a talent for creativity and imagination that would shame the Baron Munchausen." Harry gave him a slightly blank look, then grimaced.

"I was afraid of that, Professor." He thought for a moment, then went on, a certain grim determination entering his voice. "What I'm trying to say is-- well, I know I'm one of your students too. I know I'm only sixteen... but... look," Harry faced the Headmaster. "Wanting to join the Order wasn't just about me not wanting people to go on keeping secrets from me. You just said that your main responsibility is to protect the students here. Please... Albus," he said awkwardly, then waited a moment, watching the old man's face, then went on, hoping that the name used would show the meaning he wanted it to. "Please, keep _them_ safe. I don't think you can keep _me_ out of trouble any more."

"It is rather possible," Dumbledore mused, with a wry smile, "That no teacher living or dead has ever had the power to prevent you from becoming involved in trouble, Harry." He paused, his face growing more serious. "It is the hardest thing in the world to let a child grow up." A shadow passed across his eyes for a moment. "But you are right, Harry- and wise. I believe I am not the first to say that there is greater wisdom in you than you know- or that you have many of the qualities of a great leader of men. If- when the time comes again- you think that it is right and necessary that you place your life in hazard for the sake of those we both feel an obligation to protect... then..." The old man turned his face away for a long moment. "I shall support you as best I can."

"Thank you, Professor." Harry offered Dumbledore his hand again- and the man's ageing fingers curled gratefully around his own. Dumbledore cleared his throat. He looked back to Harry, and the sparkle returned to his eyes.

"And now, I fear, I must leave you," Dumbledore chuckled, rising to his feet again. "There are other matters of the end of term to attend to- and I imagine that Poppy will soon forcibly evict me from this room if I delay your rest much longer. There are some forces," he added, with a dry smile, "That no wizard can withstand." He paused. "But I may need to speak to you later on, Harry. There are certain matters which must be resolved, in the fullness of time."

* * *

Harry had returned to classes the following day- finding it difficult to believe that the last day of term had come upon him so suddenly. Ginny and Neville and the others had attempted to warn him of the reaction he was likely to face- but even so, the whispers and glances that followed him as he moved around the school- from student and teacher alike- both embarrassed and infuriated him. In some ways, he felt that it was rather worse than last year, when he had been a figure of mockery and derision. At least then, as he eventually told Seamus while they were walking to Transfiguration, he had had the consolation of being able to feel honestly angry with the people who doubted him. The term he had used to Seamus was 'idiots', which the boy had agreed with wholeheartedly. Now, though- how could you be angry with people for practically worshipping you? Ron and Ginny had spent the lunch hour teasing him about Harry Potter fan clubs, and Colin Creevey had already walked into three doors and fallen down two flights of steps- and would probably have broken his neck at least once, if it had not been for a timely levitation charm from Ginny- through trying to capture the perfect photograph of the Boy Who Lived. 

At least McGonagall's class had seemed normal- in fact, the Deputy Headmistress had seemed somewhat withdrawn and pensive, although a smile had touched her thin lips when she had told them that they were to begin studying Animagus theory early in the spring. Reactions to that had been overwhelmingly positive, and she had sought entirely in vain to impress on her class the difficulty and the challenge of the magic involved. Every student was convinced that he or she would become an animagus- and generally very eager to offer up theories on which form they- and others in their class- would take.

The conversation continued on the way back to the Common Room at the end of the day, and, as Harry, Hermione, and the two Weasleys sat around a little table in one corner, Ron watched Hermione's frantic efforts to check her book list for the next term. They had visited the hospital wing on their way back, where Ginny had met them, having just been to see Blaise, and told them that- although personally, she could see no change beyond a slight improvement in the colour of the girl's cheeks, Madam Pomfrey had assured her that all was going well.

Ron sighed, as Hermione pushed his feet off the table, rummaged through a bag, and then scuttled over to the windowsill and back.

"Definitely a hedgehog," he remarked. The bushy-haired girl's head snapped up.

"I beg your pardon, Ron Weasley?" she said, in a dangerously low tone. Ron swallowed, looking from one side to the other- but neither Harry or Ginny offered any obvious way of escape.

"I like hedgehogs," the boy protested, weakly. "They're... they've got nice eyes," he cringed. Hermione eyed him with hers dubiously. Ron's own eyes widened in slight panic. "Well, they have. And they're clever- they curl up and don't get attacked by things..." He groaned, and gave up. "All right, Hermione, go ahead." He closed his eyes. "What am I? Any animal you like."

Hermione looked at him witheringly. Ron flushed.

"I was just joking, all right?" he scowled. "I mean, we're not leaving till Sunday, there's no mad rush to get packed up."

Hermione folded her arms, her stare almost unblinking. Ron shifted in his seat.

"I'm sorry, OK! All right, I know I ought to get organised... it's just, it's the last day of term, I'd just like to enjoy it for a bit." The stare continued. Ron gave a grunt of annoyance, and got to his feet.

"Oh, all _right_!" He walked heavily off towards the staircase. "I know, I know. Tomorrow I'll be wanting to fly with Harry, or play chess, or something... I know," he grumbled. "All right," Ron fumed. "I'll get on with it... " he seethed, face mottled redder than his hair, more with embarrassment than anger. Hermione's unfaltering gaze of disapproval remained a constant until Ron had set foot on the first step, and then, as he cast one unhappy look back at her, dissolved into a wink.

Ron stared at her. Hermione inclined her head gracefully, and batted at her hair with one hand, before taking a sip of tea. Looking a little lost- and eyeing his sister and best friend, both of whom had watched the performance with silent mirth, more than a little suspiciously, the red-haired boy made his way back to the table.

"Nine out of ten," Ginny observed to Hermione. "You didn't actually make him walk into the door."

"Girls!" Ron muttered crossly, sitting down heavily at the table. He considered, and gave Harry a slightly hurt look. "And you! You're supposed to be on my side."

Harry regarded him blandly.

"You can't see where your sister's aiming her toecaps," he observed, directing his gaze at- and, by implication, down through- the wooden tabletop. "Trust me, loyalty has its limits."

Ron rolled his eyes.

"Anyway," he said, with a wry look at Hermione, trying to regain some control over the conversation, "I reckon Malfoy's just _bound_ to end up as a ferret."

Harry grinned at his girlfriend, and finished his cup of tea.

Ginny pulled a face. "Or a skunk- be creative, Ron."

"He may not even _be_ an Animagus," Hermione told them, a little primly. "Not all wizards are- by any means. Professor McGonagall's the only known Animagus on the teaching staff, after all. Even Dumbledore isn't one." She looked round a little despairingly, hoping for her friends not to be too disappointed- but the rest of the quartet had now found a new game.

"What about Snape?" Ron mused. "D'you think there could be a Veggiemagus? I can see him as a Bubotuber, can't you, Harry?"

"An old bat, surely," Ginny offered.

"Nah, that's Trelawney." Ron grinned. "I bet Snape'd be a raven or something depressing like that. I can just see him flapping round the castle croaking nastily." He considered. "Vulture."

"Turkey vulture," Harry added. "Or just a turkey."

Ginny leant back in her seat, and tapped her fingertips together, smiling at Harry as she drew her feet up under her in her usual curled way.

"And what about everyone's favourite limp-wristed Lord of the Dark?" she purred. "He's supposed to be an Animagus, isn't he?"

"I expect he's some sort of snake," Hermione suggested, and, a slight smile crossing her face, offered, "A grass snake, probably. Or maybe an earthworm."

Harry smiled, and waved a hand over the dregs of his tea, leaning forward and letting his hair hang down over his face, shadowing his eyes.

"I see..." he murmured, in a mystical tone. "I see into the mind of Lord Tommy... erm... Little Voldemort..."

Ginny leant forward, eyes sparkling.

"What do you see, oh wise and learned seer?"

"I see... a fluffy bunny."

There was a brief pause. Ron became aware that the Common Room was, for a moment, silent. Then, quietly, someone sniggered. Another joined them. Seamus gave life to a hideous guffaw.

Hermione leant forward to be heard over the laughter, and remarked across the table to Ron. "It would explain a bit about Narcissa Malfoy's slippers, anyway," she hissed, with a smirk.

Harry waited for the amusement to die down.

"No," he sighed, putting the cup down. "I was only kidding," he said sadly. As he leant back, his eyes narrowed, sliding sideways to glint briefly at Ginny's.

"No?" Ron stared at him in mock astonishment. "You don't say?"

"No, Voldemort's not really a fluffy bunny rabbit," Harry sighed, and paused, leaning back in his armchair and looking vacantly over Ron's right shoulder. "Actually, he's Pigwidgeon."

"Well," the Boy-Who-Lived protested, as Ron attempted to hex him, "Have you ever seen them together?"

He grinned at his friend- a grin that slowly turned to puzzlement. "What's up?" Ron and Ginny were both looking past him, their smiles fading. Harry and Hermione turned, rising to their feet.

Minerva McGonagall tended to avoid the Gryffindor students' Common Room. For one thing, the students tended, especially in her own house, to be a little more boisterous than she would entirely approve of, and, for another, she was quietly aware that her presence would have been one altogether more quiet and staid than her students, in their turn, would entirely approve of in their Common Room. Although she might not agree with the ways in which many of her young charges chose to pass their time, the Deputy Headmistress did feel- quite passionately- that, taken away from their homes for so much of the year, the students had a right to a space which was, in a sense, their own, and not subject to the same rigours of academic discipline- unless, of course, due cause made it necessary. Thus, standing inside the door, looking round at the suddenly quietening antics of her students- and pausing to cast a withering eye that would have made Hermione proud over a small game of lava drop tiddlywinks which had already furnished three hearthrugs with a fetching new Swiss-cheese pattern, and Dean and Seamus, who had organised it- Professor McGonagall did look a little out of place.

She looked around the room quickly, before picking out Harry, and beckoning to him once, urgently. As her disapproval at the young Gryffindors' behaviour faded from her face, the boy saw the expression which had caused so much alarm in his friend and girlfriend. McGonagall was angry. Angry and oddly apprehensive. Harry rose to his feet.

What have I done now?

He picked his way across the floor, motioning to his friends to stay where they were for the moment, and stopped in front of her.

"Um..." A nerve was twitching slightly in the elderly woman's cheek. He subsided into silence, and studied McGonagall's face- rapidly coming to the conclusion that, if she was angry, it wasn't with him. In some ways, of course, that only added to his apprehension. He hadn't, as far as he knew, broken any particularly fragile or important rules lately, which suggested...

Order business.

"Is Blaise all right?" he managed, praying to anyone or thing listening. To his relief, McGonagall looked briefly confused, before allowing a faint softening of her expression.

"Miss Zabini's condition is unchanged, Mr Potter," she told him, then went on. "I am afraid, however, that the Ministry was unwilling to countenance the delay you requested. Your presence is required in the Headmaster's Office immediately."

Harry stared at her for a moment. He was not surprised to see the same annoyance he felt mirrored in her expression. He nodded, resisting the temptation to shout- which would have hurt his throat- or obliterate anything. A chilling feeling of dread began to seep through him.

"Thanks for letting me know, Professor." He hesitated, and looked back at his three friends. "I... er... have to ask Ron and Ginny if they want to be there as well."

McGonagall's expression shifted, warily.

"Potter, I understand the sentiment, but I do not believe that the Ministry representatives..."

"Sorry, Professor," Harry took his life in his hands, "But that's how it is." He turned abruptly on his heel and walked back.

"What's up, Harry?" Ron asked. Ginny had caught sight of the slightly sick look in the boy's eyes, and watched him quietly. Harry rested his hands on the back of his chair, and spoke quietly.

"Priori Incantatem..." he swallowed. "Dumbledore talked to me about it last night, just before I moved back up to the tower. I thought it'd be sometime next term- that's what we'd planned, but it sounds like the Ministry have got scared." He paused, and glanced at Hermione. "Makes sense, I suppose. It'd be just like Voldemort to put hundreds of people in danger just to get his blasted wand back. They want it done now."

The three looked at each other.

"The reverse-spell effect," Hermione licked her lips. "They want you to set it off in Voldemort's wand..."

Harry nodded.

"So they can study his magic... find out anything- anything that might help us." He shook his head. "I agree with that part- we need all we can get. If there's anything, anything they can find out about what he did that made him immortal- or whatever he is-" he added, seeing the clever witch's brow crease speculatively, "- then the Order needs to know as well. The thing is..." Harry hesitated, and looked at Ron and Ginny. "The thing is, I told him I wanted you- and your parents, to see something there too. If you wanted to." He pushed back his spectacles. "Damn it, I don't even know how to say it. I thought I was going to have weeks to think about this- I thought you would have time to decide..."

"I don't get it." Ron frowned, and waved a hand. "If you want us to give you a hand..."

"It's not that, Ron." Ginny gripped her brother's wrist suddenly, eyes wide, stilling his gesture. "Remember what Harry told us about the night Voldemort came back?" She swallowed, the same unsettled, unfocused look in her eyes now. "Echoes of past spells."

"But what does he want us to see?" Ron froze, and went white. He looked up at Harry. "Oh." He said very quietly.

"Echoes of the Killing Curse," Ginny whispered.

"I don't even know if I should have told you about it," Harry said miserably, bowing his head. "It's just... well, I thought... I felt you had to have the chance." He grit his teeth. A familiar knot was forming in his stomach.

"Will Mum and Dad be there?" Ginny got to her feet, and put out a hand to him. He looked up, sharply. Her eyes were damp, and her face pale, true, but that horrendous emptiness he'd once seen in her face had not returned as he'd feared it might. He nodded, then hesitated.

"If Dumbledore can get them there. If they want to come," he said. "We were going to- but I don't know if he'll have been able to do it." He looked at her. "I wish I'd never taken the thing, Ginny."

"I don't." She took his hand, and a deep, steadying breath. "I stole the chance from you once, remember?" She looked at Harry. "When I looked into the Pensieve. Then I wasted it. Ron and the others never even had the chance, any more than you did with your Mum and Dad," she added, squeezing his hand tightly. She turned to her brother. "We've got to do it, Ron," she told him. "I know it's just a ghost, an echo, an imprint on the spell..." she shook her head furiously. "Whatever. We've got to say goodbye to him."

* * *

**Mademoiselle Phantom:** Hm, Luna Milner... now, that's a scary thought. Glad you enjoyed the battle- and believe me, no one could kick Snape as much about it as he's kicking himself. 

**AriKitten:** The Bendy Lord of the Dark will find a way. At the moment he's probably off somewhere having a good cry.On the other hand, you know what they say about "What doesn't kill you..." The important thing now is for any Death Eater who values his skin to avoid discussing 'flexible' battle tactics.

**missy mee:** I don't think Harry can entirely believe that he's alive. Next time no one's going to get off nearly as lightly.

**cyd:** I'll not be stopping before one of them's dead and gone.

**Wolf's scream:** You'll be glad to know that chapters 1-10 are now thoroughly weeded. I'll be replacing the online versions once I've got a block of fifteen chapters to switch over. Yes, Draco now owes his life to the fact that certain redheads find transfiguring him far too convenient... and you can bet that'll rankle a bit.

**Aubs:** In theory, a theory which will probably drift about a bit as ideas expand and contract in the writing, I'm about half-way through "The Sound of Sorcery" now.

**sdf: **Thanks!


	32. Brief Candle

**Chapter Thirty-Two:** Brief Candle

Once, there was a garden, a right royal garden of formal walks and hedges of box and hawthorns, and at each end of the path that led through the long garden there were two more. The first, which was without size, was the garden where they sat all in grey and coloured with nowhere. Beyond the other garden gate lay the garden without end, where watchfully stood the lights and colours in never ending ever growing ranks and each calling out my name.

_My name? Who am I? I remember pain._

I fell so far, and the world fell away from me, and all the pain fell away with it. Once, long ago, I looked down on that garden and reached towards it, for I had once dwelt there a while, but as I leant out over its pleasant greens my frail perch broke beneath me. Below me lay the garden, but also the garden without end beyond and it seemed to me that I fell towards that, there to join the colours- and I fought with the air that drew me down.

_I am so near, but the gardens lie so close and the hedge between them is like a knife-edge._

The beauty of the three gardens astounded me as I fell toward them, and my heart ached for the garden of the blank grey faces- but it was so small that it does not exist, and I could not fall into it. I fell towards the garden of walks, but also into the garden of colours.

_I do not want to fall into the garden of colours._

The green and verdant hedge that flourished between the garden of walks and the garden of colours was home to many small birds and creatures, but it was a barren chasm of endless night. Try as I might to fall on to the beautiful garden, I fell towards the garden of colours, and as I fell towards the garden of colours, I did not, but fell instead towards the chasm.

_The gardens are so lovely._

Down I fell, and caught a hand at the grassy lip, but felt soil crumble, not taking my weight, spinning, tumbling, rolling until only a slit of light like the eye of a cat gazed down at me as I fell into the darkness. Rock struck up at me out of the endless black, and broke before me, and again I fell, my body breaking and shearing away. Flesh, blood, sinew, bone. Brain, nerve, mind, soul. Only the indivisible I remained to fall down, even the slit of light gone now, as I struck rock and rolled out of sight and mind until a deeper darkness opened in the ground and again I fell, a dark nothing inside dark nothing. Down. Down. Down.

_Hitting the bottom will kill me. I have fallen so far._

I fell so deep and longed for the falling to reach its end, but each solid mass of soil or rock that I impacted against gave way, crumbled, fell with me and away from me and I fell on, on, on.

* * *

The quartet of students followed Professor McGonagall to the office in silence. Harry- not looking round, felt for Ginny's small hand and took it in his own, gently stroking his thumb to and fro across her knuckles as they walked. Still, doubts seethed in his head, but at the same time- what choice had he had? 

I couldn't... not give them the chance.

But last time?

He remembered Ginny's face, empty and broken by the memories she had seen.

I have to protect her...

No. I have to trust her. I have to trust all of them. I've got to give them the choice, even if it hurts them. They have a right.

McGonagall stopped in front of the carved bird.

"Luminous Lollypops," she said sternly, and Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione followed her on to the moving staircase revealed as the bird moved aside.

When they reached the office, they found Dumbledore seated behind his desk, Voldemort's wand resting on the blotting paper in front of him. His eyes were closed, and his right hand reached out, lovingly smoothing and stroking Fawkes' feathers, seemingly gathering his energies for the task ahead. Snape was leaning against his usual fireplace, for once the ire of his contemptuous eyes directed not at Harry, but at Professor Milner- dressed in a white lab robe in contrast to his usual Mugglish clothing, and two Thaumaturgists- at least, so Harry supposed- who seemed to be working as his assistants, leaning and tutting over two large drums of rolled yellow parchment, each knee high, hanging on spools mounted in a heavy brass frame. Milner had just finished screwing in a fine needle-like quill into one of the drums, and was- in a quiet, serious voice, again quite unlike his teaching manner- discussing it with one of his colleagues, a stout, pretty-faced young woman with short blue-black hair, who was attempting to do the same thing to the other drum.

As Ron and Ginny followed Harry in, Molly Weasley hurried forward and enveloped both of them in a hug- before, after a moment, turning to Harry and Hermione and pressing them into the same. Harry returned it gladly- and with a fierce protectiveness that seemed to surprise Hermione, remembering his habitual shyness. He looked at Molly for a moment- was pleased to see the hollows under her eyes less pronounced than when he had seen her last, and glad to see that she had colour in her cheeks once more, albeit that her anxiety had grown strong now, in the shadow of what was before them. Arthur came forward then, from where he'd been standing with his wife not far from Snape, and, a sad smile on his face, shook Harry's hand firmly.

"Good job, Harry," he told him grimly, and meant it. Then Mr Weasley paused, and looked between the boy and his daughter. Although Harry had let Ginny's hand go as they climbed the staircase, and both Ron and Ginny claimed to have mentioned nothing of the relationship to their parents- yet- Harry thought he saw a faint look of amusement cross Mr Weasley's face- and perhaps almost pride. Then, Arthur's eyes flicked back to him, penetratingly, before he stepped back a pace.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" he asked, in a sober tone of voice.

Harry shook his head. McGonagall had warned him that the process would not be as simple as last time- as if it had been simple then, he'd been tempted to retort. For one thing, then, Voldemort's wand had been wielded by the Dark Lord himself, which had leant strength to the magical echoes being produced- now, all the power required to bring them into being would have to come from Harry himself. He sighed.

"I've been being not ready for things for sixteen years, Mr Weasley," he remarked. "They keep jumping on me anyway, so I might as well just make the best of it."

"We only just got the message in time, dear, " Molly was telling Ron. "I'm afraid Bill and Charlie have both had to go abroad again- and you know what it's like trying to pin those twins down..."

"I reckon they'd like to remember Perce in their own way, Mum," Ron was blinking very rapidly. "I still don't get why the Ministry are in such a hurry though."

"Well, we'll hear soon enough," Arthur said bitterly, and quite suddenly sounded thoroughly disgusted. "She'll be back in a moment."

Harry and Hermione exchanged glances- but before the suspicion could be voiced, the opening of the door behind them proved it. The Boy-who-lived turned, took in the squat, toad-like figure, flanked by two young Aurors he didn't recognise- and his hand moved immediately to the wand in his back pocket- only to encounter Ginny's fingers, which wordlessly held him back. He glared across the room.

"Are you here for a reason?" Harry sneered, his lip curling.

"Potter..." McGonagall said warningly.

Dolores Umbridge blinked slowly at him, a hand going up to adjust her lifeless hair. Then, smiling, she looked at Professor McGonagall.

"Dear me, you are allowing the students to be very insolent these days, Minnie, dear," she remarked, toying with the dark green bow above her forehead, which was just the wrong colour to complement her robes. "I do wonder if that is entirely wise." She turned back to Harry. "I must congratulate you on the charming and no doubt pleasurable attention the press has paid to you, Mr Potter... and, in the best interests of the Ministry and the country, I am here to investigate the somewhat outlandish claims you and... other unreliable sources," she flicked a lethal glance at the Headmaster, "Have made." She drew in her breath. "I am sure you remember the value I place upon honesty and lies," Umbridge's lips parted slightly, in a vicious smile.

"I do not think, Delores," Dumbledore rumbled softly, without opening his eyes, but slowly taking his hand from Fawkes' back, "That attempting to instruct a boy who has managed to defeat Lord Voldemort in single combat is especially necessary." He paused a moment, and then added, with no particular emphasis, "Or, indeed, safe."

"Dear dear," Umbridge clucked, "So little control..." She gave a light giggle, and moved further into the room, then looked around. "And may I ask why all these students are present? The Ministry _did _specify the need for secrecy," she lilted at the Headmaster, and smiled mirthlessly at Harry, her eyes flat and hateful.

"As I'm sure you are aware," Dumbledore's eyes snapped open, and he regarded Umbridge with an air of absent amusement. "Harry's presence is quite essential for this spell to be completed at all, and those friends he has chosen to invite are here at his request." He rose to his feet, dismissing Umbridge from his attention with deadly politeness. "Is everything ready, Aloysius?" he asked the Thaumaturgist. Milner nodded, then spun round, snatching up a small glass jar that had been about to fall to its doom from a table top.

"Ready in two shakes of a Manx cat's tail," the Professor assured him, and dived back to his work.

"Thank you," Dumbledore smiled. He looked at Arthur and Molly. "Since we were forced to be so rushed in our communication this afternoon, I should like to make certain that you understand exactly what--"

"Hem, hem."

Beside him, Harry heard Ginny's teeth grind together.

Dumbledore paused for a moment, waiting just long enough for the source of the cough to open her mouth, and then plunged on. "... exactly what Harry and I hope to achieve. As you are aware, magic creates a certain echo, or trace signature in the wands..."

"Hem, hem," Umbridge coughed more insistently.

Harry saw, behind the toad-like woman, Professor McGonagall's lips grow more pinched by the moment. For an instant, his eyes met those of his Transfiguration teacher, and shared their mutual exasperation.

Dumbledore sighed.

"I take it the representative for the Ministry has something to offer at this time," he murmured, a little frostily.

"I wonder," Umbridge enquired sweetly, "Whether you have by any chance misunderstood the owl that my secretary sent you this morning?"

"No, I do not believe--"

"The Ministry- for whom I currently speak in this matter, until a new Acting Minister is formally chosen," Umbridge puffed herself up slightly, "Wishes to stress the need for absolute discretion in this matter, and considers any information which could be used to help the war effort a state secret--"

"Thank you, Delores, that will be all." Dumbledore cut her off, his voice gentle as ever, but the tone unmistakeable. The Secretary's mouth closed, as though upon a particularly juicy-looking fly that turned out to be a small piece of grit. Dumbledore smiled, and his eyes glinted. "I am very much afraid the Ministry is labouring under something of a misapprehension, Secretary Umbridge," he chuckled. "Namely that you- and your two guards whose presence was in no way mentioned in your letter," he nodded to the Aurors in a friendly way, "Are invited here as anything more than guests," Dumbledore smiled pleasantly at her. "I am not entirely clear as to how you feel that this entitles you to set conditions on the other guests- but I am sure that you would enlighten me. I am always anxious to hear from those with a different point-of-view."

Umbridge drew herself up.

"Do not assume," she said in a deadly voice, "That because you have been reinstated as Headmaster, you and this school have somehow achieved independence from the government of this country. As an official of the body which runs and grants the authority with which you run this school..."

"Ah, but Delores, it is not my decision either," Dumbledore leant back in his chair, beaming openly. "Nor is it any organisation over which you have any legal jurisdiction which currently holds Lord Voldemort's wand in its custody." He leant forward again, and his eyes met Harry's and twinkled with amusement. "I am sure that you remember... dear me, now, what was the name?" The Headmaster's beard twitched. "Oh yes, of course, 'Dumbledore's Army'. I believe we had a certain... conversation about that association during the last academic year, did we not?" The Professor turned back to face the suddenly uncertain Umbridge. He spoke now in a quiet, light voice. "Then, I was pleased to take the credit and responsibility for the Defence Association," he stroked his beard softly, "Because it directed the displeasure of the Ministry of Magic away from young Mr Potter and towards myself."

Dumbledore stood up, and stepped away from the desk. "Today, I am most entertained by the prospect of asking Harry Potter to return the favour." He picked up Voldemort's wand between finger and thumb. Umbridge shrunk back from it. "By prize of magical combat," Dumbledore murmured, a brief look of triumph passing over his face, "This wand is the property of the chief instructor- and, if I may suggest and anticipate," he chuckled, "The Captain of the Defence Association, Harry James Potter." He paused. "You may, of course, wish to fight a duel with Mr Potter and any friends of his that may come to his defence..." Somehow, Dumbledore's grip on the wand had shifted, and now, however loosely held, its position was unmistakeably and tellingly battle-ready, "... to claim it for yourself... but for the moment, I am afraid that the will and wisdom of the Ministry has really very little say in this matter."

"You cannot entrust a matter of this importance to a teenager," Umbridge insisted- although Harry noticed with a savage feeling of triumph that her usual air of smug superiority seemed to have been compromised by her anger. "Especially not..." she smiled at Harry, "Whose reputation at the Ministry is as..."

"Ahem-hem." Dumbledore cleared his throat loudly. "I believe, Dolores, that I just did precisely that."

* * *

There was once a pool, a cool and tranquil place that lay below a waterfall in a deep and dark green forest. Once upon a time I lay in that water in the chill of the night, and it surrounded me and flowed through me, and I was content to mean nothing and to be nobody. 

_I am... I do... I am..._

Then, all a sudden I arose from the stillness of the water into which I had fallen, and stood waist deep, beholding my nakedness in the starless night. A light shone upon the water, and danced alive in the ripples of my emergence. Closer it moved, and I looked upon its source in wonderment as dark limbs of trees shifted out of and back into shadow over my head. A candle floated upon the pond in a shallow copper dish, pitted and scored with wear, and soiled by the yellow white wax from that slender stem of fire that stood upright in its centre, the flickering light of its flame skipping heedlessly over the dousing water so near below.

_Keep me safe. Tell me my name and cast light around me._

I crossed my arms across my chest and stepped towards the light, toes finding hold in stone and root at the bottom of the pool, and even as I moved to it the ripples spread out once more, touching, rebounding, blending into one another, and the candle dish floated closer to me as I stepped towards it. I reached out a dripping arm, my other hand clutching at my breast like a desperate infant, in sudden fear that the first hand knew not. In the dark overhead, an owl gave voice to a cry that chilled my blood and in my heart I thought anew the pool of cool water. I knew it not.

_There will be fire. There will be pain. I do not want the pain. __Only through the pain can I reach the place where pain is no longer._

The pool gleamed slick and thin on my skin in the candle-light, and the forest was around us no longer, my candle-flame and I. I shrank back against the stone-walled edge of the pool of burning oil, drawing my arms once more to encircle my anointed flesh and saw the candle dish bob nearer in the ripples, dancing over the sea that would turn to flame were it but to touch its surface, and I a fish in its terrible shallows.

_The flame is tall and pale and terrible._

Death drifted closer to me across the pool, and I fought to rise up, hands clawing at the stones behind me- but with each movement the liquid surface heaved, with each heave the candle dish surged closer to me, ever nearer, never receding, no matter how I beat at the oil. I reached up, found a ledge of stone, tried to haul myself up- but every inch that I drew myself from the pool was matched by an inch's approach from the candle dish, and I knew that I could not escape before it drew too near, and ignited death all about me.

_Please... just go away... just... go away. Take anyone. Anyone. Anything. Just leave me._

Alone.

_I don't want to be set on fire._

All hope had fled from me, for even if I stood unmoving in that pool, still closer was the flame borne to me, and I stared into it. The flame was tall, a crown of white. Horrible and terrible and beautiful and enchanting it seemed, and so quick, so certain and decided. Yet by one means could I escape the fire, for I could not breathe oil, and perhaps if I plunged below the surface I should meet my end in gentler fashion.

_Fire is the only path back from oblivion._

I forced my head below the oil, seeing the candle from above for an instant before my eyes closed- and then there were hands upon me, cruel blows rained down, and I struck back, and there was fire and hatred, flames shining from white-blonde hair. Pain was all about us then, our bodies and souls consumed amid the throes of our struggle. Behind me, oblivion's mouth gaped to receive me and I cast it out, for though the fire might follow me whither I was bound, it should not take me.

_What escape is there? What is there to escape? Who am I?_

Out I journeyed, out beyond, bursting from pool and forest and gardens and world, the Earth behind me dwindling blue and distant. Then, like a star being born it erupted in fire, burning away as the candle flame pursued me. Out. Out I travelled, past Mars, sullen red, through asteroids which popped and shattered as the fire raged out through the heavens behind me, boiling great Jupiter in my wake, and to charred and ruinous end bringing the mighty rings of Saturn. On and out I run, as the Sun behind me was added to the funeral pyre, and Uranus and Neptune, capricious wizard and sea mystic joined the inner worlds in flame.

_I don't want this. I want new life born, not old death left to run unchecked evermore._

* * *

Delores Umbridge stared at Dumbledore, her wide face a mask of hatred.

"I take it that is all?" Dumbledore beamed at her, and looked back around the room, getting slowly to his feet. "Aloysius?"

"Aye, aye, I'm fair near to being ready, yer Lairdship," the stocky man responded in a- for once- reasonably accurate Highland brogue, and shot a villainous grin at McGonagall as he did so. He paused to check the two recording drums of parchment once more, and then cast his eye over a row of needles on a frame being assembled by his second assistant, a spindly, straw haired man with freckles, and then picked up a slender wooden case from the Headmaster's desk.

Almost reverently, Professor Milner opened the case, and lifted out the delicate brass-ringed tube of wand cores he had kept carefully in his rooms since coming to Hogwarts. He looked over at Harry and Hermione. "I was going to show the Theory Class this next term," he murmured, setting it down gently on the desk and taking an extendable wooden stand from the case and unfolding it. "So consider this a bit of a sneak preview- and no, Miss Granger," he added, teasingly, "There's no need to take notes." Hermione gave him a hard look, which the man returned with a sunny smile, and lifted the tube by its outer ring of three wand-casings, resting it gently in the claw-shaped cradle at the top of the stand, then swivelling it to and fro to check its freedom of movement.

"This," he explained, casting an eye round at Ron and Ginny, as well as their parents, but apparently dismissing Umbridge, "Is a Magical Resonance Extrapolation Core. Or you can just call the thing a Thaumometer- most of the Muggleborns in the faculty do." He pulled a face. "Personally, though, I dinnae see the point o' bein' an academic if you're gonna use one word when four would do tha job jus' fine, huh? Huh?" Milner cleared his throat, blinking in slight surprise, and beckoned his erratic vocal mannerisms back over to the appropriate side of the Atlantic.

The thaumaturgist's two assistants began to connect the needle frame to the recording drums.

"Now," Milner said, comfortably in lecturing mode. "Once McKendrick and Ferrar here have assembled the recording apparatus, we will be able to record a exact representation of the vortex of magical energy formed inside the Core..." he moved the thaumometer to stand in front of the Headmaster's desk. Harry leant forward, peering at the strangely hypnotic swirling patterns of sparks already beginning to coalesce within.

"That's Hogwart's magical field," he heard Hermione whisper breathlessly. Ginny, too, joined him, and stared into the tumbling helix of soft light- catching her breath in her throat as it rose into a momentary tumult of energy and fell back.

"We'll compensate for that..." Milner turned to the female assistant. "Calibrate the drums to that field, would you, McKendrick?" He frowned at the pattern for a moment, and then turned to the tall man- Ferrar. "An ye'd best be reversin' the polarity of yon neutron flow as well, laddie."

"Intriguing," Umbridge noted, and gave the Dark Arts Professor a speculative look. "The Ministry understood that a theoretical Extrapolation Core this precise was several years away, Professor. I would very much like to hear how it was developed." Her eyes gleamed.

Milner ignored her.

"Right... now, with the hope that you'll not accidentally blow anyone up, especially me," he spun round to point to Dumbledore, then back again to point at Harry, and staggered sideways out of the line of fire between them, looking slightly dizzy, "We're ready, Headmaster."

Dumbledore thanked the thaumaturgist, and rose once more to his feet, examining Voldemort's wand. He gave a brief explanation of the Reverse Spell Effect- noting that he himself was not entirely in tune with the Dark Lord's wand, but that his connection with Fawkes, whose tail feather formed the wand's core, would allow him to exercise enough control over it to satisfy the needs of the spell. Harry drew his own wand.

"Might I suggest something not especially destructive, Harry?" Dumbledore smiled at him, tensing himself just as Harry was. "The Priori Incantatum is a somewhat unpredictable magic."

Harry considered.

"I'll try not to smash anything this time," he looked around the office, and then turned to Ginny, his eyes tense. "Are you sure about this?" he looked up, first at Ron, then at Arthur, and finally Molly. The four Weasleys each returned his gaze steadily- and Ginny put up a hand to his cheek.

"About as sure as you are ready, Harry." She gave him a sad smile, and stroked his face. "Go ahead." She stepped forward, and kissed him firmly on the lips.

"Ginny..." Ron groaned, glancing frantically at his parents. Molly's jaw dropped, and Arthur- after one startled glance, determinedly failed to meet his wife's eye. Delores Umbridge- and Professor Snape- both looked entirely uncertain of how to react.

Finally, the two separated. Ginny stepped back from the Boy-Who-Lived, eyes dancing slightly, her lips flushed.

"All right," she repeated, a little vaguely. "Sorry, I mean, go ahead now."

Harry raised an eyebrow, his green eyes twinkling at her mischievously, despite the situation.

"Are you sure?" he murmured, licking his lips. Ron rather suspected his friend had forgotten the accumulated parents, teachers, academics, and evil hags in the room. "I mean, you can do that again first if you like."

Molly Weasley made a sound not entirely unlike a kettle coming to the boil.

Dumbledore's eyebrows quirked slightly.

"Ah, no, Harry," he raised a hand slightly, before resting it on Fawkes' back once more. The phoenix trilled slightly, and nestled against him. The Headmaster glanced at Professor McGonagall's piqued expression. "I think we should proceed."

Harry's face flushed- and then paled again, as he and Ginny ended their own private distraction, and the world returned to trouble his already troubled mind. He nodded.

"Sorry, sir..." he looked around. "Um... how did you want me to start this?" Suddenly, the boy seemed aware of all the attention trained on him, the attention he'd managed to ignore unconsciously a few moments ago- and he shifted from foot to foot, a trapped look on his face for a brief moment competing with his concern for his friends. The DA was one thing. This... was...

Ridiculous,

Harry's mind snapped at himself.

I don't look half as silly up here in front of everyone as Little Tommy looked after I filleted his arm, do I? Focus, Potter.

"When it happened last time," he began, sounding more confident, "It was a duel."

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed- and suddenly glittered with a youthful mischief. "You may wish to consider _Attenuata Nox!"_ The old man thundered suddenly, eyes flashing suddenly wide, and, straightening his stance, swept a jagged beam of pure darkness at Harry.

"Protegiolumos!" Harry mangled the spell slightly, but a concave lens-like aura of light rippled out from his wand, matching the darkspell before it reached him. He too had snapped instantly into a battle-ready stance, all playfulness gone from his face in a second.

Dumbledore took half a step backwards as the two spells crashed together, a soundless concussive wave rippling out across the room. The inner tube of wand cores revolved violently within the thaumometer, and the huge recording drums began to revolve. The Headmaster drew himself up, eyes tracing the thin paring of darkness that marked the interference line, the eye of the storm of their colliding magics, that stretched between Harry's wand and the one in his hand. Harry, his own eyes locked on the Headmaster, gave a quick, taut grin.

"Nine out of ten, Harry," Dumbledore's mouth twitched. His hand continued its slow stroking of Fawkes' flight feathers, drawing his magical field into tune with the powerful wand. The two wands were operating on the same frequency- but a certain amount of power was necessary to trigger the effect they sought. He smiled. "Vios Timbuktu!" The Headmaster twirled the wand, flinging the Banishing Charm at Harry.

"Petrificus Totalus!" Harry held his ground, once again casting his own hex into the teeth of Voldemort's wand. Once more, the spells clashed, once more, magic flashed out in a searing red light across the room.

"Bloody Hell!" Ron hissed. Even Snape seemed to find cause to move behind a chair as two further curses- again, meeting, clashing, dissipating against one another, blossomed into a chimeric and ethereal cloud of light and lightning about the bodies of the two duellists in the room's centre.

"Omniflux gaseous!" Dumbledore roared, tall, wreathed in shadow and a dark and purple haze of power. The spell split the air, cleaving a burning white tear of pure light that burned away all shadow for a moment as it flashed at Harry. The smaller figure turned, raising his wand.

"Noxia Lumos Terrificus!" Harry thundered, and his scar blazed red as all the light seemed to sink out of the room around him, leaving him outlined in darkness. All light seemed to flow through him, burning into his wand and tumbling forth in a spiralling torrent of energy that met the burning power of Dumbledore's assault head on with a mighty crackle of energy. Both men gave a startled hiss of pain, as the bridge of light between their wands flickered for a moment- and held. With a final clap of thunder, it began to undulate, the magical energies of the duel seeming to fall towards it, strengthening it, encapsulating until the white was shot through with every colour of the rainbow, an impossible ribbon of magic and unreality between the twin phoenix wands.

"Remind me never to pick a fight with you if your classmates aren't around to pick up the pieces," Milner breathed to Harry- but the boy was far beyond replying, the sweat standing out on his brow, his teeth gritted as he fought with all his might to maintain the stasis between his power and the awesome strength of Albus Dumbledore.

"Remind me to cheat," Ginny added with a faint smirk, sounding a little shaken herself, albeit from a different cause, knowing what was to come. Slowly, responding to Molly's insistent gestures, she drew back from the two figures either side of the desk, and joined the little group by the door.

"Ready... Harry?" Dumbledore's voice was strained, and he leant slightly against his desk for support. The boy gave a grim nod.

Harry's eyes blazed. "Expelliarmus!"

"Expelliarmus!" Spoken simultaneously, the two spells rippled not through air, but along the bridge of magic, striking and rebounding and splitting into gleaming pearls of pure white focal energy, beaded along the ribbon of power. Now, Harry bent forward over his wand, his hair lifting and shifting in the air, crackling with electricity and magical energy, a hollow roaring sound filling Ginny's ears as she saw the tiny points of light begin, slowly, inexorably, to force their way back along the connection, back towards Voldemort's wand. She swallowed nervously, and felt her father's hand grip her shoulder hesitantly. It was coming. Now, as the Headmaster deliberately- it must be deliberately- gave ground under the wave of magical force coming from Harry, Tom Riddle's wand was beginning to glow, faintly at first, and thin gaseous streamers billowed from its tip. Professor Milner bent excitedly over his equipment, muttering to himself.

Ron and Hermione glanced at each other. Both had, in their time, pressed Harry for as much as he had been willing to describe of the encounter with Voldemort in the graveyard a year and a half ago. Now- especially Ron, knowing what was to come, the realisation that they were about to see it first hand was beginning to come home to them- as a jagged flash of light crackled from Voldemort's wand, earthing to the floor. Milner glanced up, then back at his recorders- then again, as a dark red cloud rose, inky and noxious.

"That's Tuesday night's battle..." he murmured, watching as more and more spell echoes burst forth from the wand, alternately casting light and shadow across the room. The man gave a low whistle, as a pale image of trees twisting and writhing formed in a cloud of dark smoke, and the tortured creaking of bark and wood filled the air. "That's some magic Harry was up against," he remarked.

Silently, Ginny saw in her peripheral vision her father take her mother's hand in his, and took a step back, nestling herself against them. She knew them so well, knew that now their grief for Percy, was echoed by their concern, their knowledge that she had been beside him in the forest that night, fought the same power.

Still, the rages of magic thundered about her boyfriend and her Headmaster. She wished... she wished she could say something to him now- or that he could say something to her. Anything. Anything to... No, not to stop him. She had done all she could- even when kissing Harry, a small part of her had wanted so much to put something else into her parents' minds, some other thought, something beside the horror, some... reserve, some defence she could give them. She had done all that she could to prepare them.

What about me? I just... I want to speak, I have to make it something different... I don't know. I'm on my own.

Hermione had taken Ron by the hand, drawing him back to join his family. Ginny, at the centre of the group, put an arm around her mother in an almost convulsive gesture, and felt her parents grip on their children tighten in response. Felt, not saw. The magic reverberated through the room- the patterns of power writhing in the Core with a life that she knew, felt in the deep places of her mind- and she could feel too what was to come, the ageless malignancy that was boiling up from the depths of the darkness.

The Killing Curse.

* * *

On and out I journeyed ever longer, leaving behind stars and galaxies like little smudges of light, the litter of gods on the perfect blackness of the canvas, and ever behind me the fire rages until I held the universe a cupped bauble in the palm of my hand- and even then felt the heat growing within its confines, and saw the candle-flame growing stronger in its depths, like a great slitted eye in the dark firmament, rushing up to claim me.

_How far do you want me to run away?_

With a cry of anger and fear, I threw the cosmos from me, letting it shatter and break on the linoleum, parts and pieces of galaxies and souls lost forever in the mouse-holes under the skirting board, and wrenched at the door to the room outside. Once upon a time there was a door which was always locked, because it was a door with only one side.

_The candle is alight in the room which is inside nothing._

I turned my head, and gave my look of loving terror to the candle dish which grew behind me, and bowed to the flame as it set the linen curtains on the boarded-up windows aflame. The flame faced me and knew satisfaction, and I, knowing that I could not run, ran into the fire, and tore at it with my hands and feet.

* * *

Harry and Dumbledore were a frozen tableaux, their features animated by the light and fury of magic about them, the torrent of spells that poured forth from the wand. Only by the magic- the distinct scent of Harry's power, like a sun rising, like an eagle breaking free from a cage and rising in the wind- only by that enchanted melody did she even know that the boy was alive. He was pure magic, drawing the poison from the wound in reality- and she felt its approach across every cell of the body of the world. 

Dimly, an indistinct shadow on the borders of a world that was circumscribed by the glowing storm of power, she saw Snape hurry across to the magical recorders, speak to them- but it was upon them, a shifting mass of light, larger than any that had yet appeared, and yet dull, like a sickly broiling mist, rising from the wand in Dumbledore's hand and spreading, taking on form, a trick of the light, a crude fashioning of the appearance of matter, the eyes dark shadows in an impossible, burning, brilliant haze of white that was surrounded by nothing but dark obscurity, and yet, she knew him.

A burning white flame in the tall shape of a man, featureless save for those dull smudges of eyes, an inverted silhouette at the centre of an endless shadow.

The voice spoke not into the air, but into each mind, and from far distant, an echo on the wind.

"Can't... him... already..."

The hand on Ginny's shoulder tightened painfully, and Arthur's breath caught. Molly held out an arm to the spirit.

"Percy..." she whispered.

The blazing shape shimmered, the voice clearer now, but the light rippling, waxing and waning like a candle caught by a fluttering draught.

"Dead... can't kill him... already... can't... already... kill him... dead... can't kill him... already dead..."

"Percy?" Ron sounded uncertain. Ginny looked at them- then at Harry, his mouth twisting, trying to form words- but all his strength gone into trying to maintain the spell.

Again, the echo continued its wretched refrain, begging for the acknowledgement Harry could not give.

"Can't kill him... he's already dead!"

Harry can't answer him. He deserves- he needs an answer. I can. I was there.

"We... we know, Percy..." Ginny pulled forward, away from her parents, taking one step towards the phantom on legs that seemed lifeless pegs. "We understand that."

The shape's head turned in the surrounding darkness, a burning white flare, and as it moved, the room filled with a roaring wind. The dark smears that were eyes gazed upon her desperately- and though there was no emotion on that inhuman, distant face, she felt in a rush all the humanity- all the strengths and all the failings that had been Percy Weasley brush against her mind.

"You can't kill him. He's already dead."

"We know!" Ginny held out her hands to the shade. "Hermione worked it out. He's pure magic. We understand what you wanted to tell Harry, Percy," she spoke slowly, clearly, speaking as if to a child. How much of a mind remained in the weaker echo of the spell? When Harry had faced Voldemort before, the Priori Incantatum had not been like this.

"Best of us... Ginny... I failed... Mum! Dad!"

A human cry of fear. Ginny's parents blanched, her mother wordlessly holding out her arms, tears spilling down her face.

"I'm so sorry... failed... let you down... betrayed..."

"You did what you believed in!" Arthur protested, in a cracked voice. "You stood up for what you thought was right and we loved you... we love you for it."

"... don't deserve it... so sorry... wrong..."

"Of course you deserved us loving you, you prat!" Ron croaked. "What do you think you are? You're not meant to be perfect, are you? So what if you got it wrong? You didn't know..."

"... everything... still... not the truth... not all... Minister..."

"That will do, Weasley!" Umbridge practically shrieked at the phantom, suddenly moving forward, the two Aurors wordlessly flanking her. Without a word, McGonagall and Snape stepped in front of her- their wands not drawn, but a bleak look in their eyes that promised nothing short of death if the Secretary interfered again.

"... love... you... all so much... but... wanted... to... be... someone... you'd be proud... your son..."

"The day I carried you into the Burrow, a little baby in my arms... was one of the proudest in my life..." Molly told him. The spectre's face changed again, its voice growing harsh, more insistent.

"... can't kill him... already..."

"It's his last..." Ginny started, trying to explain, but stopped. "We understand, Percy... we know. We know. Please... you can rest now. You don't have to..."

"... don't..."

The figure was fading, the light dimming, flowing out into the darkness once more.

"Percy!" Arthur shouted. Ginny looked across the room wildly, thought she saw a glint of triumph in Umbridge's eyes, then saw Harry's struggle, the boy's head twisted back with the effort of maintaining the image for so long.

"Don't go..." Molly cried out.

"Let him go," Ginny rounded on them suddenly, desperately as she heard the same hollowness beginning in her mother's voice that for so many days had sounded in her own throat. Desperate. Not just for Harry, for them. "Please... we've got to. We can't... we can't stop it having happened. Percy's dead!" she shouted at her mother, hating herself for doing it. "It's just a memory. Let him go... please."

"... don't... understand... already... love you all... power... love you... mother... father... brother... sister... already... prophecy... love..."

And the light went out.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

_Ouch. For some reason, this chapter did not want to come together. Half of what was supposed to be in it isn't any more, and of that, the quarter that works will go into the next chapter. Since the previous chapter's already mentioned three times that it's the end of term, so this won't 'spoil' anything, I will also say here and now that the Christmas Holidays will start next chapter. This is to force me to keep to plan._

_Oh well, swings and roundabouts. On the downside, I now want to kill Percy again because of how much of a pain he's been to write dialogue for in that final scene, but, on the upside, I really enjoyed writing the 'candle' sequences._

_Right, review response time:_

**Mademoiselle Phantom**: Snape is there, as you've seen. James and Lily wouldn't have been appropriate for this chapter, but stay tuned next time :-) I'm relieved you're enjoying Ginny (so is Harry...). The girl's mad, but in a friendly sort of way. Well, if you happen to be indestructible.

**AriKitten**: If that conspiracy theory were true, it would probably put Ron off ever having any sort of pet again. Perhaps he'll turn into a flea animagus just to pay Wormtail back... no, that's _too_ silly.

**David305**: So they're not rodents at all? Drat and double drat. Oh well, sorry for the inaccuracy- I may drop in a Lunaism to correct the mistake in a future chapter... :-)

**Wolf's scream**: Thanks, I thought it was about time Harry paid back some of the effort everyone's put into prising him out of his various guilt-holes over the years.


	33. End of Term

**Chapter Thirty-three:** End of Term

A dull, almost purring throb of a headache was massing somewhere in his forehead, creeping down over his brows and trying to push closed his eyelids. Harry shook his head violently, and pulled his wand back upright angrily. The wave of lassitude that had swept over him as Percy's image had faded had almost knocked him to the floor. He stretched his eyes wide, staring at Dumbledore. The old man looked back at him, wordless, his gaze ranged along their opposing wands, and the burning, writhing tear of magic between them.

"Harry?" he heard Hermione's voice, dimly, in the distance, some few dozen star systems away on the other side of the room. He made an effort to straighten his back. Too weak. Too distant. Dumbledore had warned him- warned him that trying to perform the incantation on Voldemort's wand alone would produce a far weaker effect than that he had experienced once before in the graveyard- but he was well over a year older, now, and not weakened by the Dark Lord's resurrection. He hadn't expected it. He had underestimated the power needed- no, Harry realised, and the feeling was like a blunt and callous blow from the hand of a friend in his mind, he had overestimated himself.

I really thought I could bring him back... just for a while...

He bit his lip, watching the flickering beads of magic oscillate along the ribbon of energy between himself and the Headmaster. He couldn't bear to turn and look at Ginny and her family- even if he had been physically able.

Sorry, Ginny.

No other words even seemed to have the strength to sound audibly- even in the depths of his mind alone. His wand wavered. The moment Percy's echo had appeared, the moment when he should have fought the hardest- for her sake, for their sake... his power had dwindled, a cold and bitter tiredness seeping through him.

"Harry?" This time Dumbledore spoke- himself clearly strained by the episode, for all that his task had only been to channel magic through the dark wand. The boy fought to clear his mind- but forcing thoughts through his brain seemed to be like stirring some thick and coagulating substance determined to resist all change or movement. His mind was heavy, heavy and sluggish.

"I think we should bring this to an end," he heard McGonagall say. "It's too much, Headmaster. It was most unreasonable of the Ministry to insist on this, so soon after Mr Potter's ordeal," she added, in an angrier tone, presumably directed towards the Secretary. Umbridge... as soon as her toad-like countenance flitted across his mind, the pain increased- and with it, a burst of anger. McGonagall was right. If only he'd had more time- more of a chance- he might have done better, for Ginny, for Ron, for Arthur and Molly...

"No," Harry spoke slowly, his mind seeming to take an eternity to find his words. "I'm... all right..."

"There does not seem to be much value in continuing this experiment," he heard the loathsome voice say, her tone tinged with unmistakeable pleasure. "The boy is plainly incapable of being of any use to the Ministry. I hope, however, my dear Professor Dumbledore..." The honeyed tones grew more saccharine by the syllable, "That you are now disabused of the notion that one mere teenager can possibly be a sensible investment of time and resources which would be better spent on more official measures to combat the threat of He Who Must Not Be Named and his followers."

"Last year you wouldn't even admit he existed!" Ron yelled at her.

"The Ministry adapts- when presented with sensible and believable proof," Umbridge told him. Harry's vision was blurring again- and the interference patterns on the ribbon of magic were inexorably, unmistakeably, making their way back towards him, try as he might to push them back.

What happened to me... ?

"What is needed at this time are precautions- precautions against creatures that are known allies of the Dark Lord, measures to control and record their movements..." The Secretary had turned back to Dumbledore. "Then investigation into any and all magical techniques that properly trained and Ministry-approved Aurors may be able to use against enemies of the state, not the illicit and unsanctioned training of inadequate, unstable, and underage solo vigilantes..."

The words drifted away for a moment, and blackness seemed to reach out for him. Harry's teeth bit down on his tongue, and he tasted blood in his mouth.

"... the boy cannot do this..." Umbridge's tirade continued- and, fight as he might against it, he felt himself falling forward, a ringing in his ears... "... no value in one alone..."

... Hands took hold of him, a small and vice-like arm half-encircled his waist, a familiar warm figure pressed itself against him, supporting him, pulling him back upright.

"He's not alone," Ginny growled, and her fingers closed over Harry's, pressing their grip once more tight around his wand. As she felt the strength ebb and flow in him, she looked pleadingly back at Hermione and her family. She couldn't do anything for Percy. It was too late- but Harry was here, now.

"Professor..." Hermione began, at first hesitantly, then with more confidence, as she approached Milner, one hand on Ron's wrist pulling him forward from his parents' embrace. "Isn't there any way we can help Harry? I know we can't control the wands," she added quickly, seeing Milner about to speak- "But Harry's problem is because he's having to force the connection open and put enough raw magic into it to make it useful at the same time." Hermione tapped her lip with her free hand, then drew her wand. "If we- well, put some energy into it as well, mightn't that make it a bit easier for him?"

The Thaumaturgist looked thoughtful for a moment. With a certain studied cold glee, that rather belied his earlier opposition to Umbridge, Snape arched an eyebrow.

"More woolly thinking," he sneered. "The wands are responsive only to their proper masters- introducing another non-resonant magical field will simply increase the difficulty--"

Harry ignored them. He pulled his head back, until his loose mop of hair pressed against Ginny's, and looked down his wand at Dumbledore. He could feel her power, like a living thing that twisted and rippled through her flesh. Ginny had no wand- hers had not been recovered from the forest, presumably taken by one of the Death Eaters, although he rather doubted it would serve as a suitable replacement for Voldemort's own. A holly wand was wrong for her, the wand was his... and yet, he realised with that peak of rising triumph in his mind that drew more power up from the depths of his subconscious, Albus Dumbledore could guide Riddle's wand... _through touching the Phoenix._

He tightened his grip beneath her fingers, closed his eyes, focusing his magical field and reaching out to her.

What a bird can do, we can do.

"Together?" he whispered to her. Ginny's answering nod tickled the back of his neck.

Behind them, the argument still raged.

"It's impossible!" he heard Snape snap, and, despite everything, a very faint smile curved Harry's dry lips.

"That settles it," Ginny murmured. "We're doing it."

* * *

There was a time once long ago, when fire burned all around, and nothing remained but the flame. Then I turned about and around, and saw that I could not flee. I was alone, and was not. I leapt into the heart of the fire, and tore at it with my hands and my feet, and was burned, but all the world was alike in the burning. 

The fire hurts. I cannot escape, I must fight.

Then the flames roared ever more about me and yet, at there very centre I saw order in the chaos, a dark and empty jewel which did not burn. Hard as diamond and black as jet, shapeless and shapely, all and nothing, it called to me with a beauty that shone despite and through its impossible nature and I reached for it, stretched forth a supplicant hand already wreathed in flame.

The black jewel is white, every colour burns.

I touched the jewel and it yawned open before me, a great chasm bordered with flame, the pupil of an eye, the mouth of a great beast of fire and I fell into its depths.

I fall into the colours.

* * *

"Goodbye..." Harry's voice tore roughly at his throat, and the faint shape disappeared. Now Ginny sagged against him, and the strength that he had borrowed from her waned- but his own power had grown strong again, and as the burning shade that had been Frank Bryce, Gardener, faded and drew away their power with its passing, he stood tall again, watched as the flickering haze played about the joined wands. Everyone who had heard his story knew what was to come. His acute consciousness of them, watching, watching him as much if not more than the power, bit at his soul.

They had not been able to bring Percy back. Perhaps because the shape had been brought forth so recently, perhaps because of some instability in the wands. Maybe Ginny's own emotions, her link to her brother, in some way thwarted their efforts... or maybe, he thought darkly, with a cold rage that turned the magic flowing from his wand jet black for an instant, and made Dumbledore flinch and clench the muscles of his wand hand in surprise and pain, there was another explanation. Very well. He had learned enough strategy in chess from Ron over the years. He might not be a good chess player, but he could bluff like a politician, if he had to.

Focus, Potter.

He tightened his grip, the same knowledge that had driven his mind down one distraction after another now turning on its head and strengthening his resolve. They were coming.

I couldn't bring Percy back for her... why should I bring them back? It's not fair...

Focus, or I'll kick you.

You are _me. _

Then it'll hurt you as much as it hurts me. Stop talking to yourself and get on with it.

Harry bared his teeth, and narrowed his eyes. Already he could see the shapes in his mind's eye, turning, spinning, winding their way up through the tear in the cosmos. He locked his mind on to the spell, the linked wands before him seeming to fill the world, all else fading into darkness- and he felt Ginny at his side, her magic feeding his own need... but still, still the maelstrom flickered- and three times as he thought he saw the figures in his mind take shape, they were snatched away.

Ron looked back at Harry and his sister. He couldn't have described how he felt about seeing Percy again- even as briefly as it had been, not for any reward in the world. Part of him wanted to give up, crawl away and weep as he had when he'd heard his brother was dead. Part of him felt a sudden, mad, sickening urge to snatch up his wand and demand revenge. Part of him had ached with the relief of finally saying goodbye. After Ginny had moved away from them, rejoined Harry to give him the strength to continue, he had stayed with his parents, no more able to say anything to comfort them than they could to him, except the silent comfort of being with those each loved.

He swallowed, seeing the cloud of magic ripple again, feeling the same sensation of impending dread- and saw the light coalescing about the wands- and fading once more. Ron looked at Hermione, and met her eyes. Again, the light formed, a writhing, burning, twisting thing, far brighter than that which had formed the shape of the Muggle gardener. Professor Milner's recording equipment was buzzing and thrumming with power, filling the room with a sound like a dozen beehives in concert, a sound which echoed and cut around and through the hollow, ear-popping roar of the collision of magics, rising up to the high ceiling, drowning and yet seemingly sounding in harmony with the mutterings and mumblings of the ancient portraits of ancient Headmasters who gazed down in horror and fascination from the walls.

Again the light died- and Ginny and her boyfriend sagged. Dumbledore was beyond speech, fighting to control the wand and to use it, his hand now pushed deep into Fawkes' plumage, the golden bird bearing the indignity with fortitude, although its feathers were now severely ruffled.

Once more, two seeming linked shapes of light fluoresced in the swirling mass of power, and Ron understood, shock jolting him from the numb passivity that had slowly crept over them. A further time, the shapes began to fade.

"Hermione!" He shouted over the din, pointing his wand at the now helix-twisted ribbon of power between the powerful trio. "You said they needed power?" His eyes completed the meaning of the question.

"I don't know..." Hermione hesitated. "Ron, Ginny's letting Harry channel her power, it's not the same thing as just--"

A bolt of lightning crackled from Ron's wand- and writhed in the air, pinned between his wand-tip and the vortex. A cry of pain and surprise escaped the boy's lips, and he dropped to his knees, but, gritting his teeth, kept the wand levelled.

"-- charging in like a bull in a china shop," Hermione finished, with a wince. The vortex spasmed, twisting and changing as a third assault struck at its integrity- and the shapes began to brighten.

"Mr Weasley..." McGonagall began, and then, in greater disbelief, as a fourth wand joined the fray, a lilac and orange swirl of energy burning into the vortex at a precisely calculated point, "Miss _Granger_! Don't meddle with it... the magic could rip us all to pieces..."

The roar of sound deepened, the crackling and hissing of Milner's instruments lost now beneath a strident pulsing beat, a heartbeat of magic, deepening still further until it was almost felt rather than heard. Flakes of plaster fell from the ceiling, the surviving trinkets that decorated the study beginning to hop and judder in their places, the very walls trembling, as the light brightened.

"Accio..." Harry groaned, and his voice creaked and boomed through the heart of the magic, at one with it. "Accio spirital... accio hier... accio... priori..."

With a great crack, the vortex widened, a burning chasm of light, and the five wizards and witches tortured breaths fell into one rhythm.

"This is insane!" Snape shrieked. Umbridge's eyes had bulged as Harry drew upon the power leant to him, and she began to back slowly away, her mouth working soundlessly- but from fear, rather than any evil intent. "Headmaster!" Snape appealed, "Stop this before they bring the whole building down around us!"

"Oh, really, Professor, for heaven's sake, that's half the fun."

The hollow voice resonated with the tempo of destruction, the world rippling with a warm amusement- and once more, a burning shape of pure light stood on the brink of the suddenly pitch-black chasm, all its blinding light in an instant seeming to be an outpouring of inky shadow. Snape lowered his wand- raised instinctively in self defence- and stared at the figure in something between horror, hate, and sheer disbelief.

"Well, Harry, I'd always have thought trying to blow the castle to bits was going a bit too far, to be honest... but nice to see you're trying to do something memorable with your schooldays."

* * *

All things fell. The fall was the measure and the time and the very being of all things. We fell through past to future and treated both those impostors of reality just the same. I clutched at dreams and hopes and flowers and water, and all passed away. Into the darkness I plunged, and rock whirled up past my face, stinging, biting, clawing, freezing rock, and yet there was no rock, for the stars wheeled and the solar wind burnt my brow as I fell back through the planets remade from the flame of the candle and always I was alone.

Always falling, never stopping.

Now there came a time after many years that I saw below me the shape of a great ridge of mountains, and high upon their snow-tipped peaks, an onyx-black bootlace wriggling amid the painful glare of white like the flame of the ancient legends of the pool, there lay a long road of endless steps on which many trudged, bound in chains that girdled the world itself, and bound to face backwards, to ever see where they had been, the missteps of their path once taken- but bound one to another so that, in that very moment when the first cowled and rough-robed figure had taken the first step on sandaled foot, all their feet had set in motion, wheresoever they might stand upon the path, and compelled to stride blindly backwards for all eternity.

They rush up to meet me, but I cannot linger, cannot join them again on their journey for they are still dull, pale greys and half-hues and I have all the colour of the rainbow and it would blind me to where I have walked, and burn away all the snow on which I might have yet to tread.

I reached out my hands to the road, but knew that I should not touch it, I saw the snow and rock rush up to meet my headlong fall, but felt no fear. I had fallen so far that I had left even the 'I' behind myself and there was nothing left to fear to lose. Nothing fell. Nothing was here. There was only the falling itself. Alone even from myself, the falling went on, cracking through rocks and breaking mountains, tearing down through the Earth with a speed that cannot slow. I... the falling reached the very molten core of the world and again, fire raged, but fire cannot burn that which is not, and the falling turned inward, shrinking ever as the centre loomed... and the centre of the centre, as space collapsed, gravity bore down, and from the high room outside the universe the falling had come to the deep and dark secret of all things, the raw central stuff of matter. Still inward, still it bore ever on, and the inner secrets of the atom boiled up and out and beyond. Nothing. No matter, emptiness inside the heart of the atom and still the falling went on, on until new specks of light were seen by the solitude that is no longer I, lights like tiny galaxies and suns, and now outside the universe within the falling tumbled on, rushing in once more to find more mountains, more worlds, more fire, and more universes forever within the scope of endless fall. There was no--

I must talk with you.

Wi... within the scope of endless fall. There was no feeling now, no sensation. No self. Only the fall was left, only the fall could ever remain. Alone.

I must talk with you now. Wake from the dream and, sleeping, hear me.

Alone. Always alone. Falling ever. I am still... the falling is still falling, is still...

With me. Not alone. We are never alone.

There was nothing but madness in the voice that spoke where no voice could be, for there could be no question of personality, or memory, or self. There was only the endless, endless fall.

Now, there is a garden, a right royal garden of formal walks and hedges of box and hawthorns, and at each end of the path that leads through the long garden there are two more. The first, which is without size...

Then, as even the fall ebbed and failed, there was only water, still and endless water and I lay upon it and in it and its tranquillity flowed through me, alone in the universe...

... and the garden before the one where you stand talking with me, was the garden where they sat all in grey and coloured with nowhere. Beyond the other garden gate at which we speak, lies the garden without end, at whose nearer end I stand, where watchfully wait the lights and colours in never ending, ever growing ranks and each calling out your name, but they do not have you yet.

I lay out of thought and mind in the water, and then all at once I saw a light, and the light burned away the world, and brilliant white was all that remained... until that faded from sight, and grass touched my toes and snaked up around my ankles. Lost, all balance long fled, I flung out an arm, and my fingers sank into the box and hawthorn hedge, my body swaying, pitching forward towards a small iron gate set at a gap in the hedge. A tall, young man, his hair burning like the flame, reached over the gate from the garden of colours beyond and stayed my fall, holding me until I found my footing once again. Then, he spoke.

I speak to you, and tell you my name. I tell you that soon you shall tread again on the paths of the garden of walks that lay still at your feet, but that for now I must speak to you, for I am shut out, barred from the gate by one who dreams of a horror deep and cold, and yet there are tidings that I must pass on. When you go back to them, tell them what I could not.

* * *

"I know about the prophecy," Harry managed in a whisper, his body shaking from the power being drawn from it. The two pale figures, linked, strengthening one another, turned, and, although again their faces were without feature, he felt the love and concern grow in them, and his heart called out. "I..."

"So soon..."

The lighter voice spoke sadly, and insubstantial fingers of fire reached out to his face- but drew back.

"We loved you so much... our son, our Harry... not the child of the prophecy. I didn't want you to be a weapon, Harry."

"I'm not anybody's weapon, Mum." Harry looked Lily in the eyes, and smiled at her. "And you're always my family. You've been with me every moment I've been alive."

"Silver tongued, isn't he?"

One shape turned for a moment, and regarded the other. Then, slowly, the smaller, lighter voiced shape turned back to Harry.

"Please, Harry... don't live just in the past. Remember us... but live."

"Evans, just look how tight that little redhead's holding on to him. He's living all right."

Ginny's head jerked back slightly, and, although her face was already flushed from the strain of the spell, her cheeks coloured slightly.

"A Weasley, as I don't live and breathe,"

The deeper voiced spirit remarked,

"Nice to see. I hope Remus has talked to you about the birds and bees, though."

It paused a moment, and then, a certain puzzlement somehow manifesting in the tone, added:

"By the way... how come that bastard son of an earthworm's wand's here, and he's not? No one looks cheerful enough for him to have finally bitten the dust. Snivellus? Any theories?"

Snape's lip twisted, and he took a step backward. The spirit leaned forward slightly. The other joined it.

"What has happened, Severus?"

She asked, seemingly emphasising the name slightly. Snape, if anything, looked even more trapped. Harry held his tongue, watching in fascination. Sirius had told him that the bullying, cruel child he had once seen in his father's past had grown up- now, to see him confront the Potions Master, he was desperate to hear the truth.

Snape's lips pressed together tightly- whether through fear or anger, no one could quite say, and he muttered something.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The boy stole the Dark Lord's wand," Severus grated. The spirit tilted its head, expecting more. Snape, seemingly compelled, as the smaller shape of Harry's mother looked at him compassionately, spoke in a soulless, dull tone. "He fought him, defeated the Lord in single combat... and took his wand." Snape's lips pinched, as if he'd been made to lick poison.

The shape that had been James Potter moved slowly back, to look at Harry. For a moment, Lily waited in front of Snape, and he shifted uncomfortably, and turned his face away. Then she moved back to join her husband, this time pausing and staring, the dark patches of shadow that were her eyes almost burning with a fiercer intensity than the blazing featureless light that surrounded them as she gazed at Ginny- who returned her look proudly.

"Bloody hell,"

James spoke, in the hollow, empty sound of the opened tomb.

"You nicked his wand? You nicked Voldemort's ruddy wand?"

The voice changed for a moment, growing stern, suddenly thundering in terrible rage that shattered the glass of three picture frames and sent their occupants scurrying into neighbouring canvasses for cover.

**"HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT TAKING OTHER PEOPLE'S PROPERTY, HARRY JAMES POTTER?"**

Harry flinched, drawing back, his eyes widening- and then narrowing again. He looked into the face above him, and gave a queer, lopsided grin.

"Er, none," the Boy-Who-Lived supplied. James Potter appeared to consider this a moment.

"Ah. Oh well, fine. Go ahead then."

The figure allowed its glance to range across the room.

"My son, I speak to you from beyond the veil. This is the task I entrust to you, last of the Potters... unless Remus didn't get that family planning talk in quickly enough."

He paused impressively, and then his voice rang out like a peal of bells.

"STEAL EVERYTHING. Reach out to the stars in the firmament, and slip them into your pocket when no one's looking. Find your own strength and treasures in your heart, and put everyone else's in a big black sack. Defend all the free peoples of the world, and keep their wallets in a place of safety. Insure the castle before you..."

"James Potter, that will do."

The lighter voice silenced its counterpart in an instant, and Lily came forward.

"He loves you, Harry,"

Once more, her fingers- insubstantial- tricks of the light, played across his face. Once more, he could not feel them as he gazed up at her- but he could feel her thoughts, her love in his mind.

"He is, however, an idiot."

Harry's smile grew- and then faltered.

"Last year..." he hesitated. "Last year... I saw something. Memories... I saw you two... I wondered if," he bit his lip, and the doubt in him, the doubt that reverberated through his magic made the two images shimmer and dance like dust motes. "I couldn't see how you'd ever have fallen in love." He looked at the spirit that had been his father. "I'm sorry, Dad... I was... well, I'd made you something that wasn't even really human in my mind, I think. Then I blamed you for being a person... for not being perfect."

"Being blamed's nothing new. Your mother can blame me for being alive, Harry."

James' voice grew lighter, more playful again.

"She still does. Logic not being her strong point. I was an idiot child, I'll admit that- sometimes. I will offer one defence and one alone. Sirius was ten times worse!"

The shape came closer, moving together, James and Lily now blending one into another- Harry realised with shock and a terrifying sense of loss that the image was fading, rippling away like Percy and Frank Bryce and all those Voldemort had killed at the Ministry before them. He reached out with his free hand- but one final time, an indistinct hand brushed his own- and this time his fingers tingled with something that was not quite touch, but more than nothingness.

"Until the next time, Harry... in silence we watch over you."

"Goodbye."

* * *

Something o'clock in the morning. More or less. It might have been one... or ten. He wasn't sure if he remembered entirely how to tell the time. Harry waited for the rampant eagle that sealed Dumbledore's office to move back into place- or phoenix, whichever it was, actually, a phoenix, he supposed, although now that he came to notice it... he squeezed his eyelids down tightly, and pressed both hands hard against his face, forcing them down his cheeks, sucking the air down into his lungs until his ears hummed. Then, half sitting, half falling, he dropped back on to the statue's feet and allowed himself to slump. 

Ginny stirred, stretching, wincing as her vertebrae clicked and cracked in protest. She had stayed with him a long time, until midnight, long after first Hermione, then Ron and her mother, had left. In the end, after Harry and Dumbledore had rested for a while, and announced that they were prepared to resume the work, having reached (by Aloysius Milner's reckoning) around the mid-point of the nineteen-sixties, her father had disentangled her from the boy, stopped her from falling over, and told her that enough was enough. She still hadn't been willing to leave, until Harry had assured her that he would manage. None of the apparitions that had risen up before them had taken as much from the boy as Percy, or Harry's parents later, had done. After some convincing, first McGonagall and then Milner's assistants had been persuaded to channel their magic into the vortex in much the same way that Ron and Hermione had done, and Ginny had left him, making him promise to come and see her first thing in the morning.

She trusted Harry, but sleep had been no rest that night. Again and again, the faces of the dead had risen in her mind, and again and again she had woken in the dark of her bedroom, listening to the gentle sounds of sleep around her, and wondered if the ordeal had ended for him. So, finally, when the dark of the night outside her window had begun to lighten to grey, she had risen and dressed, and returned to the foot of the Headmaster's staircase, to sit and wait.

"What time is it?" Harry asked in a dull voice. He hadn't looked up. She suspected he didn't need to.

Am I that predictable?

She countered herself.

If I'd had to stay and he'd been sent off to sleep, who would I have expected to find down here waiting for me?

"Nearly eight in the morning," Ginny told him. "People'll be getting up soon." She walked over to him. Harry Potter looked up at her, his eyes dark and bitter.

"So many, Gin..." he breathed softly. "I... I didn't know. Not so many." He took a deep breath, breathing very fast for a few moments.

"Did you find out anything useful?" she asked, after a moment. Harry frowned, thoughtfully, and waved a hand vaguely.

"Nothing much," he shook his head. "At least, not yet... half the spells he used back then were so blurred we couldn't get much from them... and even Dumbledore didn't recognise them." He shuddered. "Some... really... horrible things." He gave Ginny a perceptive look. "Worse than the Avada Kedavra." Harry flinched even at the name, after what he had seen. She slipped an arm under his shoulder, pulling him to his feet.

"I'm putting you to bed," the girl told him, grimly. "Right now."

Harry's lips twitched into a faint smile, although his eyes had lost their focus, the fatigue bearing down on him again.

"Your place or mine...?" he murmured, but the teasing he'd intended had drifted away from his tired mind before he'd even begun to speak, and the words came out tonelessly. Ginny lowered her head to meet his eyes as best she could.

"Anywhere you'll sleep," she told him, pulling his arm over her shoulders as his legs sagged from under him for a moment. "And we're going home tomorrow..." Ginny sighed, clicking her tongue. "Ron'll just have to do your packing for you. I hope there's nothing you're too fond of." Harry straightened, taking his own weight again, but accepting the support gladly.

"Milner..." he closed his eyes, found that the energy to put one foot in front of the other came more easily when not confused with little matters like eyesight, and continued, trusting her to guide him, "Milner's going to keep working on it... on the recordings... over Christmas... let us know what he finds out."

Ginny nodded, and steered her boyfriend around a corner. Her own feet were very heavy, and now that she knew the struggle was over, all the sleep which had hidden from her before was standing in a long queue outside her brain, knocking on the door and making meaningful comments. Somehow, what Harry had tried to tease her about felt extremely attractive to her. Sleeping with Harry. Nothing more than that- she didn't think she could even rouse herself enough to find any passion in kissing him goodnight, let alone anything else, any of the many things they had been saving for a rainy day, but the idea, tired as they were, of simply lying down side by side, sharing their strength and letting the world wash away knowing that the other was at their side, part of their own little island of slumber... somehow that felt more special, more welcoming to her than any other more amusing uses of Harry and a bed that she'd occasionally pondered in idle moments.

No. Silly. Save it for... when... you can enjoy it. Besides. What would Ron say?

"Bloody hell."

She looked across at Harry enquiringly. His eyes had opened, and he scowled. "Ginny... listen, I'm... well, I'm sorry about Percy... you know, not being able to..."

"Harry, the snow's the wrong colour," Ginny retorted. The boy looked confused. She glared at him, still helping him along. "And one of my shoes is nearly worn out," she added, accusingly. "But you know what the worst thing is?" Her eyes flashed. "Once, a long time ago, when I was four, I got a splinter in my finger. I'm younger than you, so I know you were alive at the time, and you did _nothing,_" the girl hissed. "I'm sure it must be your fault," she locked eyes with him. "Apparently everything else is."

Harry stared at her, his arm tightening about her shoulder. Then, slowly, a little painfully, he laughed, and drew himself more upright as he did so- albeit leaning back against the rough stones of the corridor wall. He took off his glasses, blinking at her through bloodshot eyes.

"Fair enough," the boy gave a weary grin. "But I didn't mean it like that." He cupped her cheek with one hand, and stroked the line of her mouth with his thumb. "You're right, it wasn't my fault."

"Finally..." Ginny exhaled, and leant forward against him. "Finally..." she paused, and her mouth twisted slightly. "And Hermione owes me fifteen Sickles." He looked shocked for a moment. "Joke." She stuck out her tongue at him, and leant on him slightly more meaningfully. Harry raised his eyebrows very slightly- but a grim, businesslike look had clouded his face.

"We weren't ready for how hard it would be- trying to do the incantation with just the wand, not with Voldemort."

"I don't think it'd have been easier if he'd been there," she muttered.

"No," Harry put his glasses back on. "Tommy's not that much help, is he. He'd probably have got the spell wrong, or tripped over his robes or something... anyway," he went on, with conscious effort, "That wasn't all of it... I don't know... but I'm sure... almost sure someone was trying to block me. Or Percy." He considered. "It felt like... like someone was pulling him back." He pushed abruptly away from the wall, and, still unsteady, manoeuvred Ginny and himself down the corridor.

"I saw Umbridge's face when Percy started trying to talk about the Ministry..." Ginny's voice was cold. "I bet you anything you like she was the one who made you go through this so soon." She frowned. "I'm sure she didn't have her wand in her hand though. Sure of it."

Harry looked thoughtful.

"We might have to take steps about Madam Delores Umbridge," he commented, in a flat tone. Suddenly, a look of alarm crossed Ginny's face.

"What about the wand?"

The boy's eyebrows raised.

"You don't think Umbridge'd leave the castle without it?"

"You let her take it?" Ginny's voice rose sharply. Harry closed his eyes again.

"I let her think she took it," he told her. "Dumbledore gave it to Milner to check over after we'd finished- and Umbridge stormed up, demanding he give it over to the Ministry, keeping it safe, protecting the community..." he grimaced weakly. "All the usual line. Milner gave her a wand, and she stumped off into one of those ante-room things to hide it away."

"Whose wand?"

"Percy's." Harry said, with a flicker of satisfaction. "Your father's idea. It's rigged with a small exploding jinx. Won't..." he wavered slightly, and Ginny steered his head away from a collision course with a stone column, "Won't hurt anyone, but it'll blow itself up before it gets back to London, and produce the Dark Mark just before it does. So, the dolorous Delores thinks she's got all the evidence safely destroyed, and we all live happily ever after..." his head dropped forward.

"And Tommy's real wand?" Ginny waited. Harry didn't answer. Suddenly, the boy's head snapped upright, and fresh life twinkled in his eyes.

"Meet me on the battlements in fifteen minutes." He stood unaided, letting his arm slip from round her waist. "Bring a broomstick."

* * *

In the quarter-light before winter's dawn two figures rose up from the castle's walls, small, hooded, muffled shapes, shrouded in dark cloaks against the cold, their hems hanging low over the broomsticks which carried them. They moved in silence, letting ground, castle, mountain and forest drop away and soaring up toward the quiescent range of clouds overhead. High, higher than Ginny remembered flying before, until the world below seemed like a great map, and the sea heaved with dark and majestic promise in the distance. 

High, until the dark clouds enfolded them, and the shape of Harry, rising above her, seemed to waver and grow dim, until her trust was all that told her that he was still near at hand. High, until finally they burst up through the clouds and into a new world, an ocean of shadows and air, a world of fantastic and shifting geography. Clouds rose up, danced with one another, parted and merged, split into wisps and haze which in turn segued into monolithic masses of water that, when approached, were seemed to disappear before her eyes, and all changing, moving about one another with a slow tempo of inevitable and natural grace.

She caught her breath, and as she gazed upon the tidal beauty below and about her, a ray of golden red burst through the mass of cloud and laid down a path of sparkling light below her feet. Another came, breaking through a shifting bank and falling upon Harry's face as he flew closer, holding out his hand. She took it, watching spellbound as the sun came up, finger after finger of spreading red and golden light reaching through the airscape and refashioning it entirely anew with the faintest touch, before the burning orb itself, its promise a crimson halo on the eastern clouds, rose up burnt orange and yellow before them.

Their fingers curled tight around each other, eyes closed, tiredness and wakefulness alike forgotten, as the oldest of man's gods, and his greatest hope, shone warm on their faces and thawed the night of the winter sky.

* * *

**krissygurl, Yukito and missymee:** I hope the first person sections are a little clearer now- they'll become slightly more so around three days into the Spring Term. Glad you liked the chapter. If you got one side of the first-person you'll probably have 'got' why a flame's quite an abiding image for them now.

**DarthKottoram:** Things may get weirder before the Easter Holidays...

**AriKitten: **To tell the truth, one of the things that I still haven't decided on is quite what to do to dear Delores. I considered letting Bellatrix get her claws into her- but decided against it, since if that happened, most people (me included) would be cheering the sweet little Lestrange girl on. As for Percy: Yes, he have been able to manage more than that. The spell is very difficult to achieve without having the wizard who originally cast the spells holding the wand... but it helps if someone's not meddling in the background. Incidentally, I remember back when Harry suspected Umbridge of being in league with Tommy, you pointed out that line about the world not being divided into good people and Death Eaters. A bit of her background sneering here hopefully shows that there are more reasons than just 'supporting Voldemort' why someone might, occasionally, want him to succeed in some high-profile chaos. I don't want to bring real politics in here (although, if Umbridge becomes Minister of Magic in 1997, that'll make her a Blair Babe...ick), especially given today (at time of writing)'s tragic events in London, but "Counter Terrorism" is a useful justification for hard-line security measures, and that's just the kind of trick I see the dratted little toad playing.

**markhp:** Thanks!

**taxzombie: **Glad you're enjoying the story- hope later events (from where you are in the narrative at the mo') don't put you off by being too dark. Still, there's some light and fun stuff coming up.

**Wolf's scream: **The trouble is, she's not going to stay in her place for long, I'm afraid. She _will_ have to be told again.

**Jazna:** Milner's speech pattern- the whole drifting into Scottish thing comes from a silly habit I have when talking to myself. The trouble is, I can't do a decent Scottish accent deliberately, but I can when I don't mean to. Arguing with oneself in different voices is probably not a sign of a stable mind... but I don't want to keep horses in my brain anyway. The Dark Lord of the Anthill? Hmm... tempting. Mind you, if you have an idea of a way to write it, feel free- I'd like to read it myself.


	34. Making Moves in the Game

****

Chapter Thirty-Four: Making Moves in the Game.

The carriages sang a light jig _tricketty-trock_ as the scarlet engine puffed importantly around the head of the frozen lake, hauling its train full of excited children away home for the holidays. Ron Weasley's ginger-topped face gazed out of the compartment window, watching as the school slowly disappeared behind a rising bank of snow-capped Scots pines. He waited until Hogwarts had vanished altogether from sight, and then turned back, blinking in surprise as he looked round the carriage.

"It's a bit gloomy in here,"

"That's just the snow-glare outside," Hermione, sitting in the far corner nestling against the corridor wall, told him, while she tempted Crookshanks with a small fishy cat-treat offered through the bars of his cat basket. A ginger paw emerged and waved belligerently. "It's brighter than you think it is while you're looking at it- your eyes adjust to it without realising... no, Crookshanks, you don't need to eat your basket," - a rebellious feline noise indicated Crookshanks disagreed- "... then, when you look at something else, it all seems too dark." She set the cat basket down on the floor. "When Muggles go skiing, they have to wear special goggles- otherwise the constant glare from the snow can make you go blind." Ron's eyes widened slightly. Hermione gave him a slightly despairing look. "I think it takes a bit longer than three minutes, Ron- and it needs to be a bit brighter than that."

Ron looked up at the ceiling.

"Yes, miss." He shifted more comfortably into his seat, and glanced at Harry opposite him, his head thrown back against the headrest, eyes closed, one arm wrapped around Ginny's shoulders. "How the devil does he do that so quick?"

"Putting an arm around a girl?" Luna asked from the other end of Ron's side of the compartment. She smiled- too broadly- and put an arm around Neville's shoulders. "Like this- except that Neville's a boy, of course," Neville raised an eyebrow at her, and continued to stroke Trevor's back soothingly. Luna let go, and beamed at Ron.

"I meant falling asleep." Ron shared a long-suffering look with Neville. Luna nodded, opening her mouth with a faint 'ah' of understanding.

"It's been a tiring term for him," Hermione chastised her friend. "And Ginny-" she added, contemplating the sleeping girl next to her. That much, Ron had to agree with. Harry and Ginny had slept most of Saturday- when he had come down to breakfast that morning he'd found the two of them lying, dead to the world, flat out on a rug in the Common Room, their coats and cloaks spread before the fire, broomsticks propped against the wall nearby, and thankfully- from Ron's point of view, anyway, fully dressed and respectably far apart. They'd eventually been roused, whereupon Ginny had retired to her rooms to attempt to pack- until Hermione had overheard some disturbance from her own dormitory, and found Ginny, three parts asleep, absent-mindedly trying to use one of Tonks' packing spells to force her bed, the window, and an eager to help but slightly disconcerted Dobby into her rather small travelling trunk. At that point, Hermione had invoked her authority as a Prefect to order Ginny into bed, and had taken over her packing. Ginny's belongings were thus more neatly and more safely (since the girl had a tendency to muddle locking and biting spells) packed than on any occasion Ron had travelled anywhere with his little sister before.

Harry, on the other hand, had not even tried to pack. He'd simply looked up, told Ron he was having a vitally important dream about Voldemort's plan to conquer Mars with the help of an army of poisonous lemon-flavoured traffic cones called 'Dave', begged Ron to send in the heffalumps and woozels before it was too late, and fallen straight back to sleep. The fact that he'd been in the middle of walking across the Common Room at the time, cup of coffee in his hand, had only made Ron more certain that that Harry was not likely to be capable of much for the rest of the day.

The two of them had seemed more than a little better this morning- but, after a final visit to Blaise in the hospital wing- the girl's recovery continued, but Madam Pomfrey doubted the dark-haired Slytherin would be awake before Christmas was over, Ginny's head had been nodding during the carriage ride down to the station.

Hogsmeade's platform had been packed- even those few students like Harry who normally stayed at school over Christmas seemed to be making their way home this year.

"Dangerous sort of time," Hagrid had remarked. "Folk'll want their kids by them." The half-giant man had given a queer, almost evasive look back over his shoulder then. Mr and Mrs Weasley were travelling on the same train as their children, but had by unspoken agreement decided to share a compartment with Professor Milner and his assistants, letting Ron and his friends have the journey to themselves that they had become accustomed to. Hagrid looked at Ron and Ginny, and his glance took in Harry too. "Don't you forget that, you three. Harry, you're like a son to those two... and... and they'll need you." Then his bearded face broke into a broad smile, and despite the glint at the corner of his eye, the big man laughed, hurrying them towards the train as Arthur and Molly approached. "And a Merry Christmas to the lot of you and all!"

Now the two of them were asleep again. Ron looked appraisingly at them, until the train clattered through a tunnel. When they burst out into daylight again, he found Hermione looking at him, a complicated expression on her face.

"Spit it out, 'Mi," he remarked after a moment. She frowned, and glanced at the couple opposite, then at Ron, her lips pursed in an obvious question. Ron smiled despite himself. Asleep they might be, but he wasn't surprised to see Hermione was a bit nervous talking about the two of them.

"Yeah," he confirmed, "I'm happy for them. Both of them. It took them long enough though, didn't it?" He turned his head quickly to look out of the window, not wanting the conversation to lead anywhere uncomfortable. Thankfully, Hermione seemed content to let it drop, and settled into a quiet conversation with Neville. Ron watched the snowy hills roll by, and fumbled in his bag for chocolates.

"It's actually much more likely to be giant magic." Luna announced this without preamble.

"Sorry, what?" Neville frowned, and Ron turned back, confused. Luna blinked at him.

"The snow-blindness you were worried about, Ronald. There's an article in the Quibbler's yearbook of 1989 that proves fairly conclusively that snow-blindness in the Alps is just part of a Ministry cover-up to keep the Muggles from knowing about the giants." She smiled knowledgeably.

"Giants don't use magic," Ron told her, a little hastily. He remembered Hagrid's wand-in-an-umbrella, but said nothing. Still, he half expected the odd girl to react angrily to his criticism, but instead she gave a knowing smirk.

"That's what they want you to think."

"Grawp the Archmage," Ron muttered in a deadpan tone.

Hermione glared. "Hagrid said he's getting much better these days," she admonished him. "Besides, he did save us from Professor Umbridge and the centaurs last year, didn't he?"

"Yes, Hermy," the red-haired boy groaned. "I swear that forest wouldn't have to be forbidden at all if it weren't for Hagrid's daft ideas," Ron dug in his bags more deeply in search of chocolate, and found his chessboard instead. "Some days I'm amazed he hasn't started trying to domesticate You-Know-Who."

Harry's eyes snapped open for a moment.

"Housetraining would be a start," he yawned, and leant back against the seat, half-closing his eyes again, and scratching a little irritably at an itch in his palm. Ginny stirred, muttering vaguely and putting her hand in his.

Ron extracted the chessboard, and looked questioningly at his friend.

"No chance of a game from you, then?" he asked. Harry rubbed his eyes and shook his head.

"Brain's gone to Blackpool... ask me again last week."

Ron looked at his sister.

"Don't even bother to ask," she groaned, not bothering to open her eyes, and presumably only guessing the direction and import of his stare. "I think I'll sleep for a fortnight, now term's over."

"I think I'll join you," Harry murmured. He spread his arm along the seat back again and Ginny settled herself back against his shoulder, looking up at him blearily and giving him a faintly quizzical, but amused glance before his eyes surrendered to the weight on their lids. So much of their time together lately seemed to be spent in exhaustion, clinging together for support. He felt a sudden, momentary desire for the two of them to just... have the chance to go out somewhere, share something... well, _fun,_ plain and simple. The last few weeks had been full of so much desperation that he felt, somewhere deep inside, that something was missing. Ginny was his friend. He looked down at her fondly. A dear friend, both as part of and apart from all the other things he felt about her. Then, too, she was... well, whatever romance was meant to be. He didn't pretend to understand it.

Then, they relied upon each other. Everything was there... but he felt as if he was taking things too much for granted. He scolded himself. After all, the same was true of her. Each of them- assumed that the other would be there to support them. It wasn't that he resented it- the opposite, in fact. Harry hated the way the 'famous Harry Potter' was a call to arms for so many people in his year and others- but for her it was different. All right, maybe Ginny had once had a crush on the 'famous Harry Potter', but she'd become friends with Harry instead, and it hadn't been 'Harry Potter', but Harry that she'd kissed, Harry she'd fallen in... He brought himself up short. Fallen in love with? Harry forced himself to consider it. Had she? He looked at her face, half covered by her red hair, nestling against his upper arm, eyes closed, her features smooth and tranquil. He remembered something he'd told himself months ago.

You each know how the other feels, you just don't know if they know.

I think... I think we know how we feel about each other... the problem's just that we don't know what to call it.

Ginny's eyes opened again, sharply, and looked up at him.Harry's throat seemed to be humming to itself slightly, trying to speak and desperate to stop himself speaking at the same time. He rested his hand on her shoulder, and met her gaze.

I... I love you,

Harry thought silently, not breaking eye contact, trying to say the words with his eyes alone. The girl looked back at him, her dark chocolate eyes a sleepy question.

"I said," Ron's voice cut loudly through his tired thoughts, "Does anyone fancy playing?"

Harry raised his eyebrows slightly at his girlfriend, a mischievous look covering the sincerity on his face. Ginny tilted her head a little more upright.

"Chess, he means," she sighed, her eyes glinting.

"Ah, pity." Harry closed his eyes again.

* * *

Several hundred miles away to the south-east, another railway engine hauled a heavier load along a single line pressed against the side of a lake land valley between the shoulders of tall mountains. The engine and its driver- No. 24507 and Paul Merteuil-Rostand, both of the Socié té National des Chemins de Fer Francais, were some distance from home themselves, as they rolled comfortably along under the shadow of the south-western corner of the Swiss Alps, but bound for Basel, then Avignon and a warm engine shed for one and a warm bed and wife for the other. Paul, who much like his engine was stocky and red, with a face slightly darkened from too much sampling of the delights of one _chateau _or other over the fifty-six and a half years of his life, occasionally wondered if either the wife or the shed foreman would notice overmuch if he and 24507 were to exchange their brands of home comforts. The chief occasion on which these wonderings wandered to him was upon the sampling of the more vintage bottled delights than were strictly good for him.

He hummed a little tune to himself as they clanked along over iron rail, concrete sleeper, and iron ballast, the air thick with the oily smoke of the diesel engine.

Eh bien,

Around the rim of the lake, he saw a cowherder's livestock making their way pensively across an ungated crossing, and applied the brakes- but the old farmhand knew what he was about, and the last of the cattle crossed the track, the elderly farmhand at their rear long before the train had reached them. Paul raised a hand in silent, appreciative salute to the old fellow, and smiled as the man returned it in kind. He had been making the trans-alpine goods run for ten years or more, one track or another, one engine or another, and had come to know the old man as a dear friend from many such a meeting, although they had never spoken, never even seen one another's face except through the glass of the windscreen.

Well, that was how the liking was made. He would brake, showing more courtesy than many, allowing the farmhand to take his four-legged army out from the milking parlour to the pasture- or where ever it was that he was going with them, and in return, the farmhand would always do what he could to make sure his cattle were clear of the line and Paul was free to roll along when the train reached the crossing. For all he knew, the man waved to every train driver he saw with the same friendliness. For all he knew the man could not tell him apart from any other driver. Still, he was always glad to see the old cowherd on his way.

Paul sat back, increasing the train's speed again slowly, and started to thumb through an oily old newspaper. He should reach Basel in time for a late lunch, and would stroll across from the station yard to the little patisserie just around the corner from the station, where he'd have a chat with old Henri, the proprietor, and enjoy one of his spinach, bacon, and cheese baguettes- always a treat for this particular run home. Henri was a garrulous sort, but Paul's eldest daughter was about to make him a grandfather, which would be sure to amuse the old baker, whose own children were resolutely childless. The driver coughed, and opened the window, looking forward to his afternoon.

The train gave a sharp, shuddering jolt, and he lurched forward as a harsh, metallic tearing sound came from somewhere behind him. Swearing, Paul slowed the train to a stop in amongst a spinney of trees, and picked up the interphone to the nearest signal box.

"Allo? Ici train numero dix-sept, un, loco vingt-quatre, cinq cent zero sept?" He listened for a moment. "Ah, allo, c'est Paul. Je viens d'arreter... ouais, ouais... j'ai entendu un bruit... peut-etre... oui, je ferai promenade." He sighed, dropping the phone back into its cradle with an angry oath, and swinging open the driver's door to climb down to the tracks. He'd go back and have a look at his train, see what had happened, and check that it was safe to go on. Walking briskly down beside the line, his prospective lunch and chatter disappearing, the little man saw the problem soon enough- one of the long freight vans, about half-way down the train, had come partly loose at the coupling. Going uphill, it might have sheared off entirely, but with the gradient behind them, the tail had run on with the rest of the train. Paul surveyed the mess of twisted metal and scratched his head disgustedly.

"Ah, merde alors." It was plain enough not safe to go on. He couldn't think what had made it happen- they hadn't hit anything he could see- nothing on the track, and it looked as if the wagon had been jolted sideways by something. The driver peered dubiously at the steel framed container van, one of sixteen in the whole train, its curtained side flapping slightly. He frowned, and moved closer. There wasn't any wind. Had something come loose in there? Something rolling about, that maybe had caused the trouble. He scowled. Typical of whatever company was paying to have these things shipped that they'd not bothered to make it properly fast. If that had happened on the mountainside...

He swore loudly, again, and moved towards the van. Suddenly, the canvas flapped again, as if hit by a heavy blow from inside. Paul flinched back, wondering what was inside. Machine parts, the manifest said.

Mais peut-etre quelque espece d'animal?

Again- and this time, something showed below the canvas as it was flung up, torn free from its restraining hoops. A fist.

A massive fist. Short, stubby fingers around a wide, curved hand as big as a train wheel. He choked, and the fist flailed blindly for him again, fingers with great blunt dirty fingernails and mottled grey skin reached for him, and he staggered back, stammering.

"Mon dieu... quelle espece de connerie foutu faisent-ils dedans?"

The inspection door in the next wagon along swung open quite suddenly, and a compact, sturdy looking man in a dark suit jumped out, landing lightly on the ground. Paul turned, his eyes wild.

"He, qu'est-ce que vous faites la?" The man, his head shaven, a thick moustache gracing his swarthy, almost slavonic features, examined the damaged coupling, and pulled something from his sleeve- a stick, it looked like, long, and slightly tapering.

"Mechanus Reparo," the man intoned- and Paul saw another wonder.

"Ce n'est pas possible... qu'est-ce-qui se passe?" he demanded an explanation, not expecting one, his mind running wild as the coupling twisted, cold-forged anew in defiance of all engineering the old driver knew, returning to its proper form with a sullen submission to the will of the man in black.

Behind him, Paul heard a sudden growl, and the canvas billowed again. He saw a great shape, like a massive, misshapen man, obese and crudely fashioned, strapped down, its body fully the length and width of the van which contained it. Again, his eyes returned to the man in black, who turned now to him, his large, dark eyes lidded with disgust, and pointing the stick like some absurd sort of magic wand at Paul's head. Again, Paul asked the man who he was, what he was doing. Now, the figure answered, with a low chuckle.

"Je serai ton Seigneur, et tu vas m'obeir... Imperio!"

Some minutes later, Paul Merteuil-Rostand, all thoughts of grandchildren, of bacon and cheese, and even of spinach and Basel forgotten, climbed back into the cab of 24507, making room for the man in black to sit at his side. He did not know why he did this. Nor did he care. His mind lived only for the beautiful, soft, empty sea on which it floated, and the murmuring whisper of the voice which guided his actions. He had to allay suspicion. He had to proceed.

"Allo?" he spoke into the interphone. "Allo, ici Paul, 24507. Ouais... ouais. Non, tout en ordre. Ce n'etait qu'un oiseau qui vient de frapper le train."

"Ah, le pauvre," the signalman, an ornithologist, said sadly, thinking of the bird who had, according to Paul, injured itself by striking the train. "Eh bien," the man sighed, sadly. "Continuez."

Its couplings repaired, and the van made secure once more, the train continued its journey into France, taking its strange cargo a step closer to their final destination.

* * *

Some time later, Harry stretched and shook himself more thoroughly awake as the Hogwarts Express rushed invisibly through the last Muggle station before London. Luna had- to his surprise and Hermione's unspoken annoyance, gladly accepted Ron's challenge of a game of chess, stating that:

"Father always says there's nothing like a good game of chess to clear one's mind of unnecessary clutter."

"And we've seen where he clears it into-" Ginny had eyed an old copy of the Quibbler in amongst Luna's luggage. Ron had grinned.

"About time. All right," he had taken two pieces from the board, while Hermione prodded at the others with her wand to tell them to take up their positions, taking the opportunity to move closer to Ron and sit partly behind his shoulder, the better to watch the board, at the same time. Luna had clambered across the carriage and sat cross-legged on the floor, her head resting on Harry's knees. He- somewhat startled, had shot an alarmed look at Ginny, but had been relieved to see her expression more amused than tinged with real jealousy.

"Black or white?"

"Oh, actually I usually prefer to play red, Ronald." Luna had told him airily. Ron had stared at her.

"They're... the same thing. It's just a different colour."

"Red has a much more aggressive psychological value," the eccentric young witch then told him primly. "I find it helps to confuse one's opponent," she'd added, earnestly.

Harry and Ginny had exchanged dubious glances. Neither was under the impression that Luna needed any help whatsoever to confuse anyone. Still, it seemed, from the glances Harry had given the game board from time to time during the journey, that the contest, in which Luna had eventually decided to play white, had not been as even handed as he had expected. Luna's strategy appeared to be a mixture of insight- a number of very clever tactical plays that managed to avoid most of Ron's practised gambits for an early victory with minimal casualties- and sheer, apparently illogically insane moves that succeeded purely because of the effort the redhead put into trying to guess an opposing game plan that relied on a different definition of sense than the usual one.

The game had been a long, slow, and determined one, and for the last hour or so neither player had spoken a word, their eyes flickering shrewdly between the board and each other's eyes alone. Out of politeness, the rest of the carriage had remained in silence for much of that time- Harry mostly occupying himself in watching the game when he was not asleep, occasionally glancing out of the window, and braving Ron's snow-blindness. Sadly, it seemed the thick snow which reliably enveloped Hogwarts for the season each year had not deigned to fall yet this far south, and the weather outside was, if not warm, claggy and damp rather than crisp and clear.

Luna's face broke into a sudden smile, and she moved her last remaining bishop to a central square. She had seemed, against all the odds, rather a good player, and Harry was reminded of Professor Milner's contention that the misty-eyed girl was not so much illogical, as rather logical without regard for reality. Neville, still tired himself after his own injuries in the battle with Malfoy, was enjoying a light doze. Harry sat up. It would seem a bit odd, being without Neville and Luna over Christmas- Hermione would be staying at Grimmauld Place with Harry and the Weasleys, and hopefully joined by her parents for a few days around Christmas. Still, even if the other two still felt like newcomers to the group- although, he realised with a slight shock, they'd been a part of it for just as long as Ginny, he would miss them.

Luna frowned at the board, and hesitated, studied it for a moment, rubbing her thumb along her lip, and sighed, giving Ginny's brother a resigned look. Finally, she reached out and moved her last white knight to the black rank- the only possible move Harry could see that did not lead to immediate disaster.

"Check."

Ron and Hermione both smiled disturbingly similar smiles, and Ron moved his king aside- Hermione resting her hand over his as he did so, and looking up at Luna from behind Ron's shoulder.

"Checkmate," she observed, on Ron's behalf. Harry leant forward. Luna had been concentrating on her own offence for the last hour- seeing inevitable defeat trying to stave off Ron's ruthless advance, and gambling on a last suicidal assault along the left hand side of the board. Her mistake had come in failing to act quickly enough to relieve her own boxed-in king, not to mention the lethal rook waiting calmly behind Ron's own black ruler. Harry looked at Luna and his girlfriend, who had woken herself in time to see the final moves of the contest. Ginny settled back in her seat with a vague air of relief- she and Harry had played chess once or twice in the term, and he knew she was usually more than a match for his own fairly limited talents, but Ron was another story, and she had been watching the game unfurl almost breathlessly. Luna, however, looked delighted.

"Let's have a rematch," she beamed- blinking at Hermione for a moment, before shifting her gaze to Ron. The boy, practically glowing from the victory, looked up as he packed the pieces away.

"Any time," he grinned at her. Hermione's eyes narrowed, and her mouth started to open.

"It'll have to be sometime next term," Harry remarked, getting to his feet suddenly. "We're nearly back."

Sure enough, the train was slowing, rattling its way through the hive of tunnels and pointwork outside King's Cross. As Ron and Ginny hurriedly folded away the chess set- sending two bishops leaping across the compartment and making Harry take a mental note to buy Ron a travel chess set for Christmas- they burst out from under a bridge and steamed into the station.

Leaving a train with any amount of luggage is never simple. The power of inanimate objects to surreptitiously adjust the owner's memories, so that they seem to have been left in a quite different place to that where they are in fact discovered, is never anything short of phenomenal, and when such additional complications as attempting to locate one's luggage in amongst five other people similarly occupied, and the inclusion of such articles as owl cages and their querulous occupants- Ron at one point complained that Hedwig appeared to be deliberately standing on Pigwidgeon, only to retract the accusation later when a particularly violent jolt received by the cage as Neville lowered it to Harry outside the train would have knocked the smaller owl senseless had Hedwig not been holding her colleague steady- was in no measure helpful. Eventually, the six students managed to assemble themselves and their belongings on platform nine and three quarters, and set off towards the barrier- Neville making a rapid detour to head off Trevor's escapologist antics, after the small amphibian had landed on the platform and made a bee line for the edge.

They had walked down the platform together, exchanging wishes of "Merry Christmas"- and a bizarre "Happy Easter" from Clare Jacques to Luna- who gave Ron and Hermione a sidelong glance and beamed madly as she replied- with their friends and other students. Harry found himself and Ginny practically wilting from the effort, the _involvement_ of it all, and checked himself mentally. Sure enough, he doubted Voldemort would be taking any action personally for a while- Harry could feel himself blushing even at the thought of the absurd way the wizarding world was treating him now, but he was realist enough to admit that he had, at least, hurt his enemy, but he also knew that Lord Voldemort was not alone.

I wouldn't be much help if something went wrong now, would I?

He looked along the length of the platform, still fighting a little to keep his eyes open and his wits focused in the all-encompassing din of sound and people, and concentrating on following Ron and Hermione, taking turn and turn about guiding Ginny and being guided by her.

Once again, we need a break.

He was glad to see an unfamiliar figure standing at the end of the platform, just next to the barrier to the Muggle station. Glad because, despite the lurid combination of a shock of platinum blonde hair and an ancient, mothball-plagued looking greenish brown tweed trouser suit, the effect horrendously finished off by a pair of shocking pink knee socks pulled up over the outside of the trousers in a failed attempt to make them look like breeches, he knew her for who she was as soon as she twitched her nose at the sight of the little party, and glad because Remus Lupin- albeit thinner and greyer than ever- leant against the barrier next to her.

"'Oi, Harry! Wotcher, over here!" Tonks shouted, waving a hand over her head.

"Oh, look what the cat dragged in," Ginny stirred slightly, and led the party over towards the young Auror, where they waited for their parents to catch up before heading through the barrier. Luna was almost knocked off her feet by Jack Sloper and Clare Jacques, who were attempting to kiss beneath a small sprig of mistletoe one or the other of them had charmed to levitate over their heads, and which was currently zipping about madly over the platform around them.

"Five points from Gryffindor," Remus told them sharply, trying to snatch it out of the air with an amused expression, and failing by a few inches. "Imagine what would happen if that thing wandered through and out among the Muggles?"

"A lot of snogging?" Tonks suggested, but then frowned. "Erm, Remus... you do know you're not a teacher any more, don't you?"

"Ah." He gave Sloper and Jacques an apologetic glance. "You'd better have those points back then, hadn't you?"

"Time of the month?"

Lupin gave Tonks a slightly frosty look. Clare and Jack looked vaguely relieved. The mistletoe nudged Ron thoughtfully. Hermione drew her wand.

"Finite Incantatem!" She seized it as it fell and handed it to Ginny, then rounded on the two younger students. "Ten points from Gryffindor."

"Oh, look here, Hermione," Harry protested- and fell silent under the witch's meaningful gaze. Ginny, meanwhile, was looking up and down Tonks' bizarre choice of clothes.

"You've not been gambling with my brothers again?" she sighed, and stifled a yawn, leaning against her boyfriend. Tonks pulled a face.

"Now that you come to mention it, I'm on a bit of a winning... streak, so to speak, with those two."

Remus winced.

"Oh, come on, Lupin, you can't deny it was funny?" The girl's hair suddenly shot through with a few red highlights.

"I can't," Lupin admitted, before adding in a darker tone, "Molly can." Remus nodded up the platform. Mrs Weasley- currently looking rather exasperated as she stood between her husband and Professor Milner, both deep in some exuberant discussion- was not yet in earshot. Tonks rolled her eyes and grinned at Ginny.

"Yeah, well, no offence, Virginia, but your mother's an old fashioned sort of girl... oh," she added, in an apparent change of subject, casting a smirking look over Ginny's position relative to the Boy Who Lived, "Congratulations on that one, by the way." She grinned. "You wouldn't believe how much trouble you two getting together saved me."

"Well," Remus sighed. "At least now we know the twins aren't completely identical."

"As does anyone who was in Knockturn Alley that morning. And I'd been practising the Godiva hair specially." Tonks wrinkled her nose. "Hello, Mrs Weasley!"

It might have been Harry's imagination, but Molly's greeting to the young Auror seemed a little cool this afternoon. Still, it didn't take long for the group- moving in pairs, Harry and Ginny going through together almost inevitably- to make their way through the barrier. The young couple came through last, having waited to wish Cho and Michael Corner a slightly strained Happy Christmas, and in time to hear a somewhat hapless market researcher asking Professor Milner where he bought his electricity. Arthur Weasley, of course, looked up in astonished delight.

"You mean, you can just buy some?" Harry heard him exclaim. Milner beamed, and stuck his head out turtle-wise towards the researcher, a dreadlocked twenty-something with a bright yellow shirt.

"I don't buy it from anywhere, young man," he purred.

"Er... right, does someone else in the house pay the bill--"

"No one pays the bill," Milner's eyes had opened very wide. "I don't exist, you see," he whispered confidentially. "I, Professor Aloysius Arbuthnott Edgar Allan Ronald Reuel Anthony StJohn Milner, who would be late of Emmanuel College Cambridge, if I a) was dead, b) fired, or c) actually worked there instead of at Trinity College Cheese Research Labs, am, in fact, a figment of your imagination." He frowned. "My dear chap," he said, thinking it over, "I think you really must be overdoing things. Here," he pulled a couple of coins from his pocket, and pointed the researcher towards a small coffee stall at the end of the platform. "Now... you run along, get yourself a cup of coffee, have a nice sit down, and I'm sure you'll soon stop having hallucinations about raving lunatics and feel much better. Run along now," The young man fled.

Milner turned on his heel, and regarded a giggling Luna.

"Ah-ha!" he jabbed a finger in her direction. "Miss Lovegood... excellent..." he tapped his fingers together. "It's all falling into place. Come along now, we have an appointment in Cambridge in a few hours- to be more specific, your father is having dinner with me tonight, and you will travel home with him in the morning." He beamed, taking hold of various items of Luna's belongings. "To be less specific, he sends his apologies for not having let you know in advance himself, but it seems he was engaged in astral communication with the spirit of a small gazelle this morning."

The overhead announcement system began to make pointed comments about the 15:39 departure for Cambridge and King's Lynn. Milner looked up. "Come, we must away ere break of wind... or words to another effect." He turned to Harry and Ginny. "Aye, an' an Happy Hogmanay ter yer both, lad an' lass. Dinna get yerselves too sozzled for to be doin' your 'omework tho', will ye?" He paused. "Assuming I remembered to set it. If I didn't, please forget to do it. In any case, don't work with children, animals, or dark wizards. Being children who are going to learn how to be animagi, and are at war with certain persons of the evil persuasion, I'm sure you will manage wonderfully."

"... now ready to depart. The 15:38 departure for Cambridge and King's Lynn, calling at..."

"After all, I frequently have to work with children who behave like animals... although occasionally I suspect I'm actually dealing with animals that occasionally behave like occasional children... or even occasional tables, on occasion." He smiled at Ginny, and crossed his eyes. "Still, if certain young ladies persist in transfiguring members of the class into ferrets at every opportunity, that's hardly surprising, is it?"

"... Ely, Littleport, Downham Market, Watlington, and King's Lynn."

"What can I say?" Ginny looked back unabashed. "I've got a practical and positive attitude to learning new forms of magic," she recited at him. She paused, and looked at her father- both parents looking slightly startled by their journey down from Scotland in Milner's company. "And if that's what it says in my report letter, I'll sue him for plagiarism."

"This train is now ready to depart."

"I've already written your report, Miss Weasley," Milner's eyes glittered, "So, if it did happen to say the same thing... in amongst all the observations about your regrettable association with a boy who routinely attempts to practice every hex in the land on me before I've finished taking the register..." He favoured Harry with a sunny smile, "Then I could sue you, because you'll find out I published first, ha-ha!"

"I bet I could get a time-turner that would say otherwise," Harry told him, and returned the smile with manic sincerity.

Milner opened his mouth, then cocked his head towards platform eleven, and the train in which he had earlier expressed an interest. Luna had already reached the doors. He closed his mouth with a rather definite air of decision- and ran. A few moments later, the automatic doors closed, and the train- the tail of Professor Milner's coat still protruding from between its doors- rolled away.

Harry shook his head despairingly, and looked back at Remus.

"Having Voldemort try to kill me every so often does help to make things feel a bit more normal," he offered.

* * *

Once the somewhat reduced party had reached Grimmauld Place, Harry, knowing he would have to start moving immediately or risk falling asleep, told Molly that he needed to go out again, for a little Christmas and birthday- Ginny's was imminent- shopping. Ron and Ginny's mother was obviously reluctant- but accepted Harry's plea that he wanted time to choose Ginny's present on his own, without having to deflect her into another shop during their family shopping trip later on. Although Molly gave him a slightly thoughtful look- either because she suspected him of trying to get around her, or at the mention of his relationship with her daughter, Harry wasn't sure and didn't wish to speculate, the appeal evidently played successfully on her sentiments, and she agreed- but not to him going alone.

Tonks had a certain amount of shopping to do in Diagon Alley herself, and willingly agreed to accompany him, although she was keen to stress that it was in the capacity of a bodyguard rather than a nanny. She was, however, slightly surprised by the shop Harry intended to patronise.

After paying a visit to Mr Hawlings' Elixirs, Potions For Ye Weary Wysharde, and Boxes For To Keepe Them Ein, where Tonks haggled for a large gourd of Wolfsbane, which she eventually got for two thirds of marked price with a free lecture from Mr Hawlings on the dangers of associating with dark creatures like vampires and werewolves, earning a certain amount of hostility from both Harry and Tonks which was only confirmed when the man attempted to sell the former a potion to put spring in his step and desire in his heart, the boy and the Auror crossed the street to Mr Ollivander's dark and somewhat intimidating little shop front.

Tonks, still smirking slightly over the incident with the aphrodisiac draught, opened the door for him and hustled him through.

"Far too many people about for you to be hanging about in the street too long," she cautioned him as their eyes adjusted to the dim candlelight. "And you'll not be able to keep Virginia off you- love potion or no love potion if you go and get yourself hurt again, Harry. Keep your eyes open." The boy gave her a sideways grin.

"Yes, Professor Moody," he chanted in a sing-song tone. Tonks stuck out her tongue at him, and whispered something about wands and buttocks. Her hair grew long, and raven-dark as Harry's own in the candle-lit shop. With a sudden creak, the small, now slightly hunched figure of the master wandmaker came out from behind the first row of seemingly endless shelves, his eyes glittering in the gloom.

"Ah, Mr Potter... eleven and a half inches," Ollivander made a small but distinct motion, as if marking a tick in a box. "Holly... and a phoenix feather core, was it not?" He looked to Harry for a response, but turned his head away before the boy could nod. "Ms Tonks... eleven inches," again, the ticking motion. "Elm and dragon heartstring, I seem to recall." Mr Ollivander moved over to the counter, setting a small wooden wand-case down on its surface and brushing the dust from the inlaid leather top. He sat on a tall, rolling stool, and looked up at Harry from under his brows. "And I have a note here somewhere..." he looked briefly down at the counter, and then tapped one side of his forehead, a self-indulgent and not entirely pleasant smile crossing his features. "Ah yes... a consignment of test wands issued under deposit... for a Mr Longbottom?" He looked up expectantly. Harry gave Tonks a quick glance, and took the small, flat box from inside his coat.

"I've brought them back," he said, with the faintest stiffness in his voice. "Neville's chosen the one.."

"Ah yes..." Ollivander took the box in his hands, speaking softly. "A most interesting selection... and I am confident that Mr Longbottom will have chosen wand number eight of the set." He opened the case, and stroked one finger slowly, almost sensually, down the spine of each of the remaining nine wands resting in the frame inside it, his smile growing slightly. Harry clenched his teeth. Ollivander had a way... a way of always seeming just that too many jumps ahead and to one side to ever allow Harry to feel fully comfortable with him. "Yes," the man confirmed, with just the faintest hint of self-satisfaction in his voice. "As I thought. Holly, twelve inches, cored with unicorn hair- from the black unicorn, no less..." he began taking each of the other wands from the case, examining them minutely for any sign of damage or wear. "I hope that it is performing satisfactorily."

Harry nodded. The wandmaker returned the nod, beginning to laboriously return each wand to its individual case, each case produced smoothly from under the counter, as if prepared and waiting.

"Yes, yes, I thought that one would do nicely. Of course," Ollivander gave him a cunning look, "The black unicorn would be especially suitable for one who has felt as much family grief as Mr Longbottom has. An ideal choice- and one that might have been a usable wand for you, Mr Potter, if... ah, destiny had not found you another." He tilted his head slightly, his smile probing, almost goblin-like in its intensity. His eyes met Harry's and held their gaze until the boy turned his head away. Tonks shivered slightly, wrapping her arms around herself, and moving to examine some of the nearer stacks of wand boxes. "Well then," Ollivander said, his tone lightening suddenly, and, launching his stool along the length of the counter, snatching at and opening an ancient dusty ledger, "Since all nine wands seem to have been returned in perfect resale condition, it seems I must refund you the deposit- less the price of the wand in question, naturally." He paused, looking up again, as his finger sought the correct figure in the correct column. "Please do not touch those, Ms Tonks." Tonks' hand jerked away sharply from a teetering pile of boxes, and she grinned in embarrassment.

"You've not forgotten?" she asked. Ollivander's features looked pained for a moment, but his typical sly smile returned soon enough.

"I never forget, Ms Tonks," he whispered.

"I was only eleven," she muttered, a little crossly, but Ollivander had opened a drawer in the counter and counted out a stack of coins, which he started to push towards Harry.

"I believe that will be our reckoning, Mr Potter." Harry smiled, and stopped the old man's hand with his own.

"Actually," he hesitated just for a moment. "There's something else I wondered if you could do for me." He took a long piece of rolled up paper from inside his pocket and laid it on the counter top. "I don't know if you can do this sort of thing- if it's in your normal line of business... but can I get a wand specially made? A commission?"

Ollivander's eyebrows raised slightly.

"Such a thing is not unheard of, Mr Potter, by any means... but neither is it cheap. Most wizards are able to find a wand to suit them amongst..." his voice trailed off into silence, and his jaw slackened very slightly. Tonks, hearing the change, moved quickly over and looked down over Harry's shoulder, at the slim, golden feather lying in the centre of the unrolled sleeve of paper, red and orange hues shimmering across its surface like patterns in oil. Harry flicked his eyes up to hers, then looked back at Mr Ollivander.

"My... friend's wand was taken about the same time I took Voldemort's wand away from him." That made the wandmaker's eyes snap wide open, although Tonks doubted anyone in the wizarding world had missed the reports of Harry's battle. The Boy Who Lived was looking intently at Ollivander. "After the battle, Professor Dumbledore and I had to call on the help of the phoenix who gave his tail feathers for that wand and its brother here." Harry flicked his wrist, and his own wand slipped down his sleeve into his hand. His green eyes glittered with something that defied description, and he flexed his other hand. For the first time, Tonks noticed a pale white scar on the palm, a ghostly mark- and, with a faint thrill of shock, three small flecks of dried blood on the quill that lay on the counter. "This morning, I found this." Harry's lips twitched with a thin smile. "To be more exact, I woke up to find Fawkes perched just over my pillow, and he shook that out into my hand when I tried to stroke him." Harry thought for a moment. "I think there are meant to be two out in the world. I want you to make a new wand, for her. A sister for the two brothers."

"I see," Ollivander's eyes narrowed. "I will need to know a little more information than that, Mr Potter." He rose to his feet, taking the quill in his hand. "It is a fair tail feather... the cut and line are good... yes..." he set a jeweller's eyeglass into his face. "I believe we can make something of this... but for the wood... now, then, the student in question..."

"Ginny Weasley," Harry told him. Again, Ollivander nodded with little surprise.

"Ah yes... now, let me see, let me see... I believe the young lady's original wand was birch, with a dragon scale core- extruded, naturally," he tutted to himself. "We might well make birch a suitable wood in this case as well... now, birch and phoenix feather... an unusual combination, but then phoenix feather wands themselves are not usual by any measure..." the wand maker looked up, taking a wand from a case. "Flagrate," he muttered, and flicked the wand rapidly, burning trails of fire on to the air, as Harry had seen Tom Riddle and Hermione both do in the past. A number- a sum of money took shape.

"That, I think, is a likely estimate of the reckoning." He heard Tonks hiccup. The boy raised his own wand, and, remembering Tom Riddle again, made the figures dance and move in the air, splitting and reforming, until a different, somewhat larger number emerged.

"Her birthday's New Year's Day," Harry told him. "Is that going to be enough if I collect the finished wand on New Year's Eve- and for no one else to hear a word about it?" He lowered his brow, and laid his own wand lightly over the feather. Ollivander, seeming slightly less sure of himself, nodded, licking his lips.

"I believe that will do nicely, Mr Potter." Harry took a step back- and paused.

"There's one last thing," he said, and directed a serious look at Tonks, who moved back to stand beside him. Harry's eyes had acquired a flinty, almost ruthless look, and he reached up, pushing his hair aside to reveal the lightning bolt scar on his forehead as he turned back to Ollivander. For so much of his life the boy hid it away, ashamed of it, hating the reactions it drew from wizarding folk, that now, to deliberately draw attention to it seemed... almost chilling. "Tom Marvolo Riddle will need to find a new wand." He passed a slow, measured look around the shelves, before returning his gaze to the wandmaker, his tone neutral, calm, and his eyes revealing nothing. "You might need to take care."

The old man smiled, once more unsurprised. He made the faintest gesture with his wand, and a queer, almost sibiliant rattling sound sussurated through the shop. Harry and Tonks looked at each other. Ollivander made a more violent gesture, and the rattling repeated- louder, more prolonged. Harry's eyes were drawn with a start to the nearest shelf. The piles of boxes quivered, the wands inside them twitching and humming with power as their creator shaped the magical harmonies of the air around them.

"I know every wand I have ever sold, Harry Potter." The man's smile was bland, inoffensive, and seemingly without menace. "And the relationship is mutual. You will not need to be concerned on my account. No one takes a wand from this shop... without proper purchase and my consent, naturally, you understand."

Tonks gave him a sharp look at the last clause, and started to speak, but Harry, his expression unchanged, and repeated, in a tone seeming as light and unthreatening as Ollivander's own.

"I understand. Take care, Mr Ollivander." The boy turned, and, Tonks following, her brow furrowed, went out into the street.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**Here we are again. Hm... a fairly 'bitty' chapter- but eventually I managed to shape it into something approaching a narrative, I hope. Now, a serious note (well, semi-serious), which will also be popping up on my bio-page. I haven't read "HBP", and I'm not actually going to for a bit. Partly because I want to wait until all the hype's faded, out of a perverse desire to be different, and partly because I want to get beyond a very particular point in this story before I see how JKR decided to take it in the 'real' book. So, please, please, don't say things like "I really liked/hated how you handled character X in this chapter, it's a shame he/she/it dies/leaves/gets eaten by Crookshanks in "The Half-Blood Prince"" in reviews here? I'm not usually bothered about spoilers, but on this occasion, if you could avoid any book 6 spoilers in reviews, I'd be really grateful. Thanks!**

* * *

Now then... and apologies for the wait for this chapter:

**taxzombie:** Milner's hatred of Death Eaters will come up- probably either just before, or during the Easter holidays. Let's just say that he and Severus have crossed paths before...

**AriKitten:** My thanks. I was fortunate enough personally that the friends I have in London (not living there myself) were all in the South of the city and a safe long distance away when it happened.Sometimes I wonder just what's wrong with human nature that someone can feel that it's in any way acceptable oreven ethically coherent to drag other peopleand their lives into the cause of their own political ideals. I suppose the only way to deal with it is torecognise that, yes, there's a great deal wrong with humanity... but tohope that eventually we'll improve, and get our teeth out of our own flesh.

Back to the chapter...a scene cut from this chapter for pacing reasons will show up in #35 and reveal Ginny's idea for putting Umbridge in her place... Harry has an idea of his own, and Dumbledorewill be sorely tempted to do a thing or two before too long.

**Wolf's scream**: James Potter as a father figure would be fun... although I'm not sure how much good he'd actually be as a parent. Possibly, like Harry, deceptivelygood. As for Lily and interactions with Severus, I hope what I eventually plan to reveal aboutthem willbe a little different- there'sintrinsically_wrong _with the 'Severus fancied Lily, sohe hated James' idea I've seen in severalother fics, but it's most definitely been done.

**Jazna: **Well, good luck on the short if you do decide to have a go- I had a bizarre but narratively dead-end dream image of an ending sequence for something like that, where an ant-hero finally saves the colony from the Dark Lord of the anthill... only for us to cut away to the macro-world, where Harry accidentally steps on and crushes an anthill during his Final BattleTM with Foldy Voldy. Mind you, that would be slightly evil.

**TheHumanoidTyphoon:** Well, thanks :-) It's been, and is still being fun to write, although these last few chapters have been a bit tricky, since so much of them's 'bridge' material. Still, if nothing else, it's taught me what Tolkien meant by "the tale grew in the telling."

**Mademoiselle Phantom:** Glad you enjoyed Snape's small moments. I've not done with the greasy git...


	35. God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen

****

Chapter Thirty-Five: God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen

Somewhere deep in the mind of a sleeping sixteen year old, an extraordinary series of events were taking place.

"This is Number Four, Privet Drive, and this is little Harry. When he was made, they found something wrong with him, and threw him away, like a piece of rubbish, into an old, dark storeroom."

Dudley roars with rage and throws a hamster at the television screen. He wanted a tricycle anyway, and now the hamster's bit him. The characters on screen dodge the hamster, which scampers away through the back of the cartoon and escapes. Dudley starts to try to eat the sofa.

"When little Harry eats a pumpkin, he turns into Bananaman!"

Pumpkinman. No, that's silly. Doesn't fit.

The heroes on screen have tied up a tall, thin 'ghost' in a black cape and white mask. Their dog, Snuffles, is barking madly. Harry offers him a Sirius snack, and pulls the mask off the terrifying figure. Everyone gasps.

"Little Tom Riddle! So you were trying to scare everyone away from the old curiosity shop all the time?"

"And I'd have gotten away with it if it hadn't been for you damn pesky sodding bloody f--"

* * *

The heavy oak door to the Black house swung shut, shaking the front of the house. Harry's eyes snapped open for a moment, and he groaned, squeezing the lids shut against an unwanted expedition by various small armies of light, and turned over on to his stomach, sliding his arms up under the pillow and supporting it just far enough from his face to be able to breathe. He tried to push his mind back into sleep. An awful, discordant wailing sound reverberated up through the house.

_"God rest ye merry Wea-sl-eys,_

_Let nothing you dismay,"_

Harry growled into his pillow. Didn't the idiots realise he'd just beaten Voldemort? He didn't want Riddle to get away before he got back to sleep.

_"For the long-haired layabout here_

_Has come home to us today!"_

"'Oi!" A deeper voice shouted something rude after the two singers. Harry turned sharply on to his back, staring crossly up at the ceiling, and squeezed the pillow up around his ears to no avail.

_"To save us all from Potter's power,_

_While he leads young Gin astray,"_

Harry sat up, shaking his head like a dog to clear his thoughts.

"Shut up, you young idiots," he heard the deeper voice protest, half-laughing. "It's too early for this." Harry looked around at the clock. Nine-thirty. He blinked in surprise. He had been rising late these last few days since the end of term, true enough, but he could have sworn it was earlier than that.

_"O tidings of Comfort and Joy, comfort and joy,_

_O tidings of Comfort and Jo-oy…"_

_"Tra-la-la-la, da-de-dum-dum,_

_De-dum-de-dum-de-dum,"_

Harry kicked off the covers and scrambled out of bed. Ron's bed- on the other side of the room- was empty. He caught a flicker of movement out of he corner of his eye and snatched up his wand, but it was only Phineas Nigellus' portrait, shuffling hurriedly out of its frame, two large earplugs conspicuously painted into its ears, and scowling at the holly and ivy arranged along the top of its gilt edge.

_"For Bertie Bott's beans ev'ry flav-i-our,_

_Include six week old hay,_

_To send us all around the tower,_

_To watch the girl's team play,_

_O Tidings of Crumpet and Joy, crumpet and joy,_

_O Tidings of Crumpet and Joy!"_

Harry pulled on his dressing gown and stumped out on to the landing, fumbling with his glasses and wand. As he did so, his mind caught up with the holly and ivy, and the bunch of mistletoe hanging from the landing ceiling dropping sickly off-white berries on to the faded carpet (Hermione had sternly instructed Crookshanks not to eat any).

It was Christmas Eve. Below, in the hall, he heard the twins begin a new improvisation.

_"When You-know-who next looks out,_

_Plotting some nasty evil,_

_Harry'll kick his head about,_

_Gin'll turn him into a weevil!_

_Brightly shone the moon that night,_

_Duck and cover, Lupin!_

_Then a poor man came in sight,_

_What the hell rhymes with Lupin?"_

The bathroom door opened, several doors along from Harry, and a large violet turban of towelling emerged, wrapped around Ginny's none-too-pleased face. Her head and bare shoulders protruded from the door for a moment, searching for the source of the sound, then she nodded- somewhat unwisely but somehow without provoking disaster- to Harry, grinned at him with the promise of shared violence against Fred and George, and ducked back inside, the entirety of Ginny surfacing a few moments later, wrapped in a crimson dressing gown.

As the twins began "Ding Dong Merrily on High, Filch is bats in the Belfry," which had a last line no one wanted uttered within earshot of Ginny's mother, the young couple hurried down the stairs. They met Ron in the hall, holding his ears, and nodding towards the kitchen- as if any other clue was needed to follow the sound. Harry hexed the door open- more in the hope of surprising one twin or another out of singing than any particular genuine rage, and Ginny followed him inside.

"Bill!" she shrieked with delight, charging across the tiled floor, the long gown flying up around her knees, and flinging herself into the arms of the tall, still somewhat scruffy looking man who stood trying to dry a battered dragonhide coat by the fire- and nearly knocking him into it. Fred and George stopped singing, one to steady their elder brother as he swung Ginny around and squeezed her, the other catching the coat- not that the little house fire would have been able to have any effect on it, but saving it gave George- or so Harry thought it was- the opportunity to try it on briefly, before Molly scooped it away from him and hung it on a peg.

"When did you get here?" Ginny beamed at her brother. "It's great to see you, I thought you weren't going to be able to make it this Christmas? Did you know we're going to the Burrow tomorrow? How are you? Merry Christmas? Mum, when did he get here? Why didn't anyone tell me he was coming?"

Harry looked at Bill over the back of his girlfriend's head and gave him an amused look. Bill set her down on the floor.

"All right, lioness." He sat down, reaching behind his head to absently twiddle his fingers in his ponytail, setting his other hand, swathed in bandages across the back and palm, down on the table. "I don't know if this is the right order, but… five minutes ago, it's great to see you too, I didn't know if I was going to make it either, yeah, Dad said something about trying to get permission to Floo there for Christmas Day, which'd be great, I'm fine, Merry Christmas, little sis… and I think it's Mum's turn now." He leant forward to give Ginny another hug. "It _is_ great to see you Ginny. Especially after the things I've heard." He looked haunted for a moment, then forced his face into a smile. In an odd sort of a way, sitting there in that kitchen, a place that had never seemed even remotely 'right' for Sirius himself, for a moment Harry was very much reminded of his late godfather. "Next time you and Harry decide to go and pick a fight with You-Know-Who, could someone please let me and Charlie know before it makes the World Prophet?" Bill grinned, and set to his breakfast with a will.

For a while, Harry, Ginny, and the twins let him eat in peace, mindful of Molly's presence and injunction that their brother (she seemed to forget Harry's place in the family) had had a tiring trip. Eventually though, as Bill finished his last spoonful of porridge, Fred spoke the moment the spoon was laid to rest in the empty bowl.

"Is Charlie coming home too?"

Bill shook his head.

"He was coming- we were going to meet up in Berlin yesterday, actually, but he got called back. One of the younger dragons has got a case of water claw or something- beats me, the closest I get to dragons is the odd Crocodile Curse- anyway, it's going to tie him up for the rest of the holidays." He looked up at his mother. "Sorry."

Molly considered.

"Your brother's doing his best to help some poor creature in pain, Bill." she smiled fondly at him. "There's nothing to apologise for."

"He sent a note, anyway," Bill rummaged in his jacket. "Christmas cards for everyone- you too, Harry- oh, and he asked me to tell you to tell Rubeus Hagrid that someone called 'Norbert' is doing fine… I take it that means something to you?" Harry nodded. "Apart from the water claw, everything's going well out there- apparently they're planning to make it a permanent sanctuary." Bill told them. "Oh, and there's a letter to Mum and Dad too, he sent it to me by Harpy yesterday afternoon."

"You mean Owl, don't you?" George asked.

His elder brother held up his bandaged hand.

"No I do not." He pulled a face, and whispered to Harry and Ginny as Molly turned away, having waved off her children's offers to help with the washing up. "Paying me back for that Valkyrie stripogram I sent him for his last birthday," he muttered conspiratorially. Mrs Weasley made a sharp, irritated little noise from the other side of the room.

"Anyway," Bill said hurriedly in a considerably louder voice, "I hear you two have finally got this joke shop of yours off the ground? I didn't get to see it… when…" his face flickered for an instant, and Ginny's hand tightened around Harry's under the table, but the pony-tailed young man rallied his efforts. "I didn't get to see it before- are you closed for Christmas, or is there any chance of a look round?"

The twins practically bubbled over with enthusiasm, and almost hauled their brother back to his feet there and then.

"Wait just a moment," Mrs Weasley rounded on them. "I'm sure Ron and Ginny would like to go into town with you as well if you're going- and poor Harry and Ginny aren't even dressed yet,"

"Oh, we wonder…"

"…Why not?" Fred and George needled, regarding Harry with identical smirks.

"Strange isn't it…" Fred remarked to his twin,

"… The two of them getting up together…"

"…Coming downstairs together…"

"… Undressed…"

"Togeth--"

"FRED AND GEORGE WEASLEY, THAT WILL DO!"

Harry, his face purple, stared frantically at the grain of the tabletop, unsure quite what colour Ginny's own features had turned, but feeling her mortification through her sudden death grip on his hand.

The twins fled.

"I am sorry, Harry," Molly turned back to them, her anger fading quickly. The two guiltily snatched their hands apart- but not before an appraising look had crossed Ginny's mother's features, and Bill had stifled a faint snigger. "Those two are…" she sought for a word. "They really are quite beyond the joke." She fixed the two teenagers with a look. "After all, you're sixteen years old, Harry," her eyes glinted at him, then moved on, "And Ginny will be in a week or so, won't you, dear. I'm sure your family can trust you to behave responsibly." Molly beamed menacingly at her daughter and the boy who- despite his new relationship with Ginny- she still seemed to consider as a son. "Can't we?"

Harry and Ginny fled out of the kitchen, after a few mumbled assurances, their faces flaming with embarrassment. Ginny leant against the wall outside, pulling her dressing gown tight to the neck, then catching Harry's eye.

Harry was about to say something when, from inside the kitchen, he heard a surprising sound. Molly Weasley was laughing. He grinned, looking at his feet and chuckling.

"What's so funny?" Ginny looked quizzically at him.

"Nothing," Harry smirked. "Come on, we'd better go and get dressed." He considered. "Separately," he added in a loud voice, as they began to climb the stairs. This time it was Bill's laugh he heard.

* * *

After lunch, Bill and Harry took the rest of the group- with the exception of Hermione, who was waiting with Mrs Weasley until her parents arrived at King's Cross- back to Diagon Alley, battling their way through desperate hordes of Muggle last-minute shoppers. Harry had only a couple of items left to buy for his own shopping- an extra Christmas present for Ginny that he'd thought of that morning whilst waiting under the glare of severed house-elf heads for the bathroom to be free, and a particular something he had in mind for Arthur Weasley. Both would need to be bought in the Muggle world, and that, both he and Ginny were pleased to note, provided them with an ideal opportunity and reason to make their way off on their own after they had seen their fill of "Weasley's Wizard Wheezes", and to finally get the chance to enjoy something which, however brief and cold- for the winter weather seemed to have become sensible of the rapid approach of the Season of goodwill- would at least count as a proper date.

Harry had seen Fred and George's shop when he had come to Diagon Alley with Tonks a few days ago. He'd been impressed then, albeit perhaps more with the twins' virtuoso performances as shopkeepers on the perpetual verge of insanity than with their actual merchandise- still, the twins had managed, in one form or another, to have on sale nearly every Wheeze of theirs he and Ron had had the mixed fortune to encounter during their school career, along with such additional delicacies as the Weasley's Patent Mix Up Mischief Maker- a short-term variety of Polyjuice potion which would make everyone in any group drinking from the same batch at the same time take on the appearance of someone else in the group for about ten minutes (Ginny bought a box, and Harry and Ron both bought a box of antidotes), bottles of floating potions which had no name- largely, so Fred told him, because Angelina Johnson had told him that their intended name of 'Buoyancy Boost' sounded like a brassiere, and an assortment of biscuits for children's parties which were in the shape of farmyard animals- each with a name, such as "Dolores the Cow", "Pansy the Goat" and so on, and would, when eaten, turn the customer into a farmyard animal- although, just to add confusion- _not _the one represented on the biscuit. Harry bought a box, largely because he noted one of the biscuits was labelled 'Dudley the Pig'.

The shop also sold copies of the Quibbler, one of which Ron bought, along with various last-minute presents. Harry was intrigued by the headline: "You Know Who's Secret Identity: The Full Facts", only to be unsure whether to be disappointed or amused to discover that the writers of the lead article, A. Milner and L.Lovegood (junior correspondent) had, apparently, unearthed shocking and incontrovertible new evidence that He Who Must Not Be Named was the secret identity under which Elvis Presley had hidden for so many years.

"I didn't even know wizards had heard of him," Harry remarked to Bill as Fred and George shut up shop again, chasing away a few potential customers. Bill raised his eyebrows.

"Come on, Harry, everyone's heard of the Duke."

"The King, Bill," he explained, patiently. "The Duke was someone else."

"Don't get started on that," Bill groaned, brandishing Ron's copy of the magazine. "First he's a Lord, then the Duke, now he's the King… what's next?"

"A penguin." Ginny wrapped an arm around Harry's waist. "That's Little Tommy's real Animagus form." She opened her eyes wide at her elder brothers. "I have foreseen it." Ginny grinned. Bill and Ron looked at each other around the smirking twins.

"Did she just call…" Bill began. Ron nodded.

"You wait till they both start it," he sighed. "It's not normal."

"Oh, well," Ginny's eyes twinkled as she made an effort to speak huffily, "If we're not wanted, I think Harry and I will go away on our own for a bit." She fixed Fred and George with a look, clearly not having entirely forgiven them their observations of the morning. "I'm sure Harry and I can entertain ourselves for a while, wouldn't you say, Harry?"

"Just be careful," Bill cautioned them. Ginny looked mischievously at him. "You know what I mean. Don't do anything with your hands that stops young Harry getting hold of his wand in a hurry."

Harry gulped and changed colour. Ginny hiccupped.

Bill turned to Ron.

"Good enough?" he asked his little brother.

"Revenge is sweet." Ron grinned at his best friend. "See you this evening."

"Git." Harry and Ginny spoke as one.

* * *

They completed their shopping in Muggle London- the bulkiest item being an allegedly portable black-and-white television set of somewhat advanced age which had caught Harry's eye sitting at the back of a shop of ancient bric-a-brac as the ideal gift for Arthur Weasley. Then, drawing their coats and scarves about themselves, the young couple battled their way through the crowds of last minute shoppers to sit for a moment and catch their breath on the edge of Hyde Park. Finding an unoccupied bench which seemed at least moderately dry and free from bird droppings- and mildly seething at the perpetual proximity of Muggles which made even the quickest cleaning charm impossible, they sat down, Harry putting an arm around his girlfriend's shoulders.

"Christmas comes but once a year," Ginny observed, eyeing the bags of shopping clustered round them like ducklings around their mother.

"Angels we have heard on high, tell us to go out and buy," Harry rejoined, with a certain air of resignation. "Still," he squeezed her shoulder fondly, "I'd rather be here than in Privet Drive."

"Talk about damning with faint praise," she smiled. "You'd rather be on a date with me than with your cousin Dudley." Ginny swept her hair back from her face, eyes twinkling in the cold. "Why, Mr Potter, you do know how to turn a girl's head." She considered. "If it comes to that, I'd rather be here with you than with Little Tommy." Her smile faltered for a second. "I don't suppose… you've…" her eyes drifted up to his scar.

"Nothing useful," Harry shrugged. "I expect he's keeping busy though." He grinned savagely. "All those Death Eaters to buy presents for- trying to decide whether to get Wormtail socks or letter writing stuff again this year… not to mention desperately trying to avoid getting caught in the same room as Bellatrix and any mistletoe." He shook his head, serious again. "There's not much we can do, apart from keeping our eyes open."

"And enjoy Christmas." Ginny leant across and kissed him on the cheek. "It seems amazing- where time goes, I mean."

"Tell me about it… I swear I was only thirteen last week." Harry let her lean against his shoulder, and looked out over the park. "The rest of the year'll go this fast," he suspected. "Gin…" he hesitated.

"Mm?" She huddled herself slightly deeper into her coat. Although the colder weather was still comparatively mild in the more sheltered streets- and positively balmy in the department stores they had been insane enough to patronise, a rather chill wind blew across Hyde Park towards them. Harry considered, and opted for practicality rather than sentiment. There would be a better time and place for that.

"I shouldn't think Dumbledore will want to let the Hogsmeade weekends run next term, really," he observed. "I was wondering if we should, well… plan something ahead of time- for Valentine's Day, I mean…" he looked at her, and saw her brow crease, questioning slightly. "I mean," Harry repeated, his tone deliberately and slightly unsteadily light, "Assuming we're still on speaking terms and not trying to kill each other by then, of course," he added. Ginny pulled a face at him.

"You're not getting rid of me that easily-" she explained, "I was thinking more, 'If we're still alive then'," she finished.

"Oh, you're the cheerful one," Harry grumbled. Ginny's smile faded, and they looked sombrely at one another. He lowered his head and kissed her lips lightly, then pulled away, just far enough to speak. "I know it's a possibility- it's always that, isn't it?" He allowed his eyes to sparkle again. "But there's no sense planning things around that, is there?"

Ginny grinned, her good humour returning, and raised an eyebrow. "We should cover all eventualities, Mr Potter. Prepare for everything."

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" Three passing old ladies gave Harry three different disapproving looks. The boy's face flushed. Then Ginny kissed him interestingly and two of the three gave her several new varieties of disapproving looks, while the third appeared to be taking notes. "I have _got_ to stop that," Harry grimaced, a few minutes later. "Tonks is a bad influence. One of these days I'll do it in range of Mad-Eye Moody, and then Tommy'll have one less job to do…"

"There you are, you see," Ginny took her opportunity, leaning back against the bench and looking at him with a bittersweet playfulness in her eyes. "We need to plan for being dead on Valentine's Day, just to be sure."

"All right then… plans for Valentine's Day if we're dead… oh, I think we'd just lie around not doing very much." Harry shrugged.

"That's what Ron does every year anyway, isn't it?"

"My Valentine's Day plans rarely involve your brother. I tend not to need any extra help to make them any more disastrous. Speaking of which, how would we have cards delivered to each other's coffins?"

"Oh, I'm sure we could pay off a couple of vampires or something." Ginny snapped her fingers, and gave Harry a wide eyed and innocent look. "Or I could always leave my coffin lid ajar…" She stroked his arm gently and fluttered her eyelashes.

"Ginny Weasley," he protested, looking over his spectacles in a particular way that Ginny had come to know meant a challenge ahead, "Here I am, not five minutes deceased, barely shuffled off this mortal coil, haven't had the remotest chance to get used to it, and there you are trying to sneak into my casket to satisfy your wanton undead lusts with me." Harry tilted his head back and looked down his nose at her. "Honestly!" he exclaimed. "Anyway, we'd be better off in my coffin- yours would be too small." He stuck out his tongue at her.

"Bah." Ginny wrinkled her nose. "I'm sure you won't mind having to squeeze up a bit." She allowed her lip to tremble slightly. "But be gentle with me."

Harry blushed a little, but then his eyes narrowed.

"Well," he said, deliberately, "That all depends on how rigor mortis works, doesn't it?"

Ginny looked at him in confusion for a moment, half-frowned, her lips pursed in a question, then stared, blinking rapidly and making a faint but unmistakeable squeak, her face turning the general colour of beetroot. Harry sat back, grinning evilly at her.

"Harry Potter, that was disgusting," she protested, once she had drawn breath again, tears of laughter starting in her eyes. "Absolutely… utterly…"

"I had a good teacher."

"Why, thank you," Ginny made a valiant effort to recover her composure.

"I meant Lord Tommy." He raised his eyebrows at her. She turned and flung her arms around him, pulling him forward to meet her.

"Git," Ginny murmured. "But don't you dare get yourself killed." She pressed her face into his shoulder, filling his nose with the scent of her hair, sharp in the cold winter's air. "Apart from anything else, I'd never be able to keep a straight face at the funeral now you've said _that_, and how would that look?" The girl's shoulders shook from something somewhere between tears and laughter, and Harry hugged her, holding her close.

"The same for you, Ginny," he murmured, and felt her grip soften, the arms which had seized him so desperately beginning to caress his back through the thick winter coat, and began to respond in kind.

"I think… what I was trying to say," Ginny spoke softly, "Is that I don't want to make plans. I mean… last time we had a date planned…" she broke off for a moment, and Harry felt her shift, trying to steer her own train of thought. "Let's just do what we want, when we feel like it. We'll come up with something for Valentine's Day- we both have creative minds, after all," she said, with a laugh in her voice, "But let's save it for nearer the time." Slowly, they pulled apart and looked at one another, Ginny brushing a tear away from her cheek and then, after a moment, reaching across and doing the same to Harry's face. He blinked, surprised at the moisture in his eyes, and caught her hand in his fingers, holding it to his face. Ginny leant forward again and kissed his hand, then brushed her lips across his own. "Sometimes… sometimes I think the moments come when we're not expecting them at all," she whispered.

"Like the right time to say something?" Harry asked. Their eyes danced around looking directly at one another for a moment, then locked.

"It's difficult, isn't it?" Ginny frowned. A droplet of water landed on her nose, and she peered at it, then tilted her head forward, rubbing it on to Harry's nose instead. The boy's shoulders shook with a surpressed laugh, and he wiped it away with a quick flick of one forefinger.

"There's no perfect time for anything," Harry told her, thinking it through for himself at the same time, "If you spot a moment and think 'Oh, that's perfect', then by the time you've thought that, it's gone."

Something splashed hard on to the top of his head. Ginny closed her eyes and reopened them, a thoughtful slow blink that he found rather mesmeric.

"I suppose the event defines the time." A flicker of movement drew her eyes upward, as a cold trickle of water ran down Harry's forehead from his hairline. Another couple of droplets struck his hand as it clasped her back. "Some things just have to be said, and if they're the right thing to say, then saying them makes that the right moment."

She dashed her hand upwards, wiping away a small cluster of raindrops from her hair.

"Ginny…" Harry began. "I…" She looked back.

The heavens opened with more haste than either would have thought possible, and a hissing, drumming, rumbling roar of rain fell on them as the brief warning droplets of seconds ago were swept away in great falling sheets of shifting grey water that churned up the sandy soil of the path at their feet. Both jumped up, Ginny starting to fumble in her sleeves and then glancing round.

"We can't use an impermeable charm," she began. Most other people were running for shelter as assiduously as the young couple, and most faster, but the area was still rather too crowded with watching eyes.

"No, too many Muggles," Harry shook his head, his thick mop of hair plastered to his scalp in a few moments, his glasses useless in the downpour. Quickly gathering up their shopping bags, they hurried for the nearest underground station. "Welcome to the world of Muggle technology," Harry shouted over the rain, extracting an umbrella from one bag and opened it up, flinging his arm around Ginny's shoulder and running with her.

"Dad's got one of those," Ginny told him, as they paused at a road junction, trying to avoid being soaked by passing buses and waiting for their chance to cross. The umbrella shielded some of the rain from them, but was designed for one person, not two, and both Harry and their shopping was acquiring a considerable amount of precipitation. "They need a little help though," the girl added suddenly, in the flurry of distracted attention as the lights changed, and concealing a wand in her sleeve, muttered a hurried charm at the umbrella. Now- considerably less noticeable to the eye than raindrops being deflected without any kind of umbrella, the umbrella continued to do its work, yet curiously the raindrops it knocked away seemed to acquire a peculiar virtue for intersecting with the descent of others in the immediate area around the umbrella, and knocking them away too, increasing its effective size to an altogether more satisfactory circumference.

"I don't think your father was expecting to have to arrest you for charming Muggle objects," Harry protested, grinning, as they scuttled along towards the Tube station.

"That's all right," Ginny flipped a hand, dismissing the problem. "I used your wand."

"How did you get hold of that?" They hurried under shelter and waited for a chance to squeeze on to the escalator. "It's still here up my…" Harry examined his empty sleeve. "How _did_ you do that?"

"Magic?"

The escalator bore them dripping down into the bowels of the earth, and it seemed to Harry, fresh from the chill wind and sudden rain of the outside world as if a great hot wind rose up to meet them. He wavered slightly, leaning on the handrail, and screwed up his eyes to try to clear the spots from his vision. Behind him, Ginny yawned suddenly and loudly, and shook her head from side to side.

They found seats on the next train, caught between a large lantern jawed Jamaican pensioner and a white-haired man in a pinstriped suit with a headache, and sat side by side as the train rattled through the darkness. Harry found himself watching her again. Ginny's long hair hung wet over her face, and a steady- if unpredictable- stream of drips formed over her forehead to fall on to her nose and eyebrows. Every so often she would shake her head in aggravation, knocking one of those off, and causing three or four more to fall on to her face. Her cheeks were reddened by the cold outside, blushing against her pale skin.

The Boy Who Lived, they called me, he reminded himself. Once, he'd wondered just what it was about Ginny that made her stand out in his mind. Yes, she was pretty- but, if he made an effort to be objective, so were others. It was just that… somehow or other, she was different in his eyes. What was it about Ginny? It was everything. Just the fundamental nature of being Ginny, of being alive in the way that she was.

"You're alive too," he repeated the last aloud. She frowned.

"Sorry?" She leant closer to hear over the noise of the carriage and conversations. The train thundered into a station and some few people disembarked, wishing a Merry Christmas to people they travelled with every few days of the year, but perhaps never spoke to save but this once a year. Harry grinned. There are no perfect moments. The noise of the train rose as it rattled away into another tunnel, grinding and squeaking and growling and roaring away through the labyrinth.

He spoke. She cupped a hand to her ear.

"I said, I love you!" he shouted, as two trains roared past each other in the darkness.

* * *

Harry tossed and turned in his sleep that night, the happy memories that were his mingled with a sense of dark clouds gathering. Somewhere, far away, something was happening- but when he tried to look upon it it was as if a great hand reached out and closed his eyes firmly, so that only the faintest glimpses, caught out of the corner of his mind's eye remained.

"The boy will suffer for the indignities he has visited upon you, my Lord."

A cruel voice, luxuriating in its own venom. Bellatrix?

Then the cold tones that brought a sharp and icy pain to his forehead even through the muted folds of obfuscation that sat between him and his foe.

"Each victory, each stay of execution, none have meaning against my purpose."

Then, as if hearing his words was enough to wake his mind against the intrusion, then the darkness came, driving him away.

"The assassin…. An iron claw… but first…. Vengeance beautiful and exquisite in its artfulness."

This time, Harry's wakening was instant.

Slowly, he sat up. A heavy lorry rumbled by outside. It was night. He and Ginny had run home from the station, arm in arm through the rain, unsure whether to rejoice in a moment that had come unlooked-for, or curse the cold and wet of it. Tomorrow, assuming no last-minute problems arose with Arthur's permission to make a temporary use of the Floo Network, they would spend the day in the Burrow.

Another lorry ground its way past, fleeing London for the holidays.

"Lumos," he heard Ron mutter from the other bed, and a faint cone of yellowish light flared up, casting eery reflections in the mirror. He saw Ron's face, tired and irritable. "Every time I think I'm about to get to sleep, another one of the bloody things goes by," the boy complained wearily. "How the hell Muggles stand it, I don't know. Bloody motorists."

"Bloody Voldemort." Harry rubbed his scar. The pain was already fading. He looked up at his friend through the dark. "Swap?"

"No thanks." Ron grit his teeth as a couple of cars screeched by. "Oh, go drive up the back end of a dragon," he growled in the general direction of the wall. After a moment- he waited for Harry to take a sip from the glass of cooling-charmed water he usually kept by his bedside, the red head sat up, and eyed Harry warily. "Did you get anything important?"

Harry shook his head.

"I think I've been promoted from 'insignificant scum' to 'vaguely significant scum'," he observed wryly. "I'd have rather had the night's sleep."

The dark haired boy looked into the mirror, saw his blurred reflection illuminated by the wand light, and made out the slight reddening of the scar. The boy stared at the young man's reflection for a moment, and then started slightly, as Ron moved the light.

"You've changed, Harry."

"How do you mean?" Harry asked, not entirely happy with the idea. Ron blinked at him, and rubbed his eyes.

"I know you and Ginny… don't want to take him seriously."

"That's not exactly it, Ron…" Ron cut him off.

"You've been trying to stop being scared of him for ages, Harry." He sat up on one elbow. "But you're really not frightened any more, are you?" Ron looked at him strangely, as if he didn't quite understand the idea. Harry's eyes narrowed. It did little to help his focus, but helped to keep him awake.

"I'm terrified of him, Ron," he admitted. "Aren't you?" he asked the question with frank honesty. A police car passed by outside, its strident wail echoing along the street. In the distance, the tyres of the first motor car screeched as pale blue light washed over the bedroom walls, and made the finger-like shadows of the branches of a small decorated Christmas tree creep along the walls.

"It's not the same, though, is it?" Ron looked uncertainly at him.

"No." Harry told him bluntly, surprising his best friend. "Not like it used to be. We were all scared to death of him because we didn't know what he could do to us, just that it would be pretty horrible. He Who Must Not Be Named." He shivered, his eyes flickering back to the mirror again. His face stared back, intent, probing, and frightened. A schoolboy woken from a bad dream and telling ghost stories in the dark.

"I think I know what he can do." Harry pulled his gaze away from the mirror. "That's what frightens me. That," he added, half to himself, "And the planning."

"His plan?" Ron frowned. "Whatever it is…" he grimaced, "He's not beaten us yet, has he?"

"Not his plan," Harry told him quietly. "Ours."

For a long while, they half sat in silence. The first car drove back, "So Here It Is, Merry Christmas" blaring from the stereo at an insane volume. A few moments later, the police car followed it. Harry groaned, kicking back the covers and wincing at the cold. He padded over to the window.

"Have you got any idea about Silencing Charms?" he wondered.

"No." Ron considered. "We can always ask Hermione tomorrow."

"You ask Hermione to go into your bedroom and put up a Silencing Charm for Christmas and you'll probably end up with a black eye," Harry grinned in the semi-darkness. "If you're lucky."

The car raced by again, with a squeal of brakes that was not enough to prevent it entirely avoiding an innocent litter bin. Harry winced in sympathy- more for the bin than for the car and its driver, and watched as it continued on its unsteady way. Then he turned from the window, heading back to bed, and caught sight of the clock on his bedside table.

"It's Christmas Day," he remarked. "Merry Christmas…"

Ron was already asleep. Harry smiled as the light faded quickly away, and pulled his own covers high around his head.

* * *

Author's Note:

Well, that was a longer gap than I was expecting, but so here it is, Chapter 35, everyone's having fun, but look to the future now, it's only just begun. Oh, and no, I still haven't read "Half Blood Prince" ;-)

Jazna: Good luck! I look forward to seeing how the idea comes out.

Mademoiselle Phantom: Well, I said I had no plans to stop, what with HBP coming out… then I got writer's block for a fortnight, despite not having even read HBP, but yes, the chapters should keep coming ;-) I wouldn't have believed a couple of weeks ago though how difficult it is to write 'Christmas' scenes in July, though. That's high praise indeed, thank you- and I hope the next term will continue to live up to it.

Wolf's Scream: I travel on a bit of that very railway line daily, and a certain member of railway staff near to the other end of the line has a habit of referring to a train as the 08:38 if it's on time, and the 08:40 if it's a couple of minutes late… not to mention the new automatic voiceover that's been known to announce that the next train will be at three am. So, yes, me being slightly evil at the expense of West Anglia Great Northern (We Are Going Nowhere) Railways…

I hadn't actually consciously spotted the chess analogy in Ollivander's sequence- but it fits the chapter, so all to the good :-)

J.K. Barr: Wow, thanks. I hope there's enough plot left in this one to keep me going the distance (I've got three nasty cliffhangers, three or four battle scenes, a speech, and a transformation or two to look forward to in the next couple of terms, so rest assured, the current lull after the storm will not last.

fhippogriff: Hello :-) Thanks for the reviews. Hope you enjoy the latest chapter. Nope, I've not read HBP yet... but you're right, the word 'horcruxes' isn't much of a spoiler on its own. Actually the Voldie scenes aren't that difficult to write, but they're a real pain to edit, mainly to try to avoid 'ranting madman syndrome'. I'm trying to write someone I can empathise with without sympathising with- he's irredeemably, horribly evil, but everything he does makes sense if you look at it from his point of view. My long sentences are a love/hate thing.

Hm, and on people not getting off as lightly... well, I have deaths planned. I have now resisted the temptation to have a scene in which Lucius Malfoy is bludgeoned to death by Ginny banishing the contents of Hogwarts' library at him book by book, as a sort of payback for a certain book-related incident in "The Chamber of Secrets", but however final or not battles may be, they'll be final for a few people...


	36. Yes, Virginia, There Is A

**Chapter Thirty-Six:** Yes, Virginia, There is A...

For most of that year beforehand, Harry would not have believed what he was to reflect upon in the weeks to come; that the failing days of 1996, from the start of his Christmas holidays until the attack were to become among the happiest in his memory. Yet it was so. On Christmas morning he rose early- albeit some half hour or so after Ron had done so, and hurriedly washed and dressed himself, not wanting to miss the ritual opening of presents that had been so much a part of his and his friends' Christmas over the years. Drawing up the hood of his Invisibility Cloak, Harry slipped along the landing, past Hermione's parents who were caught in rapt discussion with a portrait of a scabrous, yellow buck-toothed member of the Black family who had noticed the presence of Muggles in the ancestral home and decided to tell Susan Granger precisely what he thought of the whole affair, in rather graphic terms, and taking obvious glee in his audience's unfamiliarity with the idea of talking portraits.

The Grangers had drawn back in surprise for a moment, not to mention alarm- Arthur Weasley, bearing in mind everyone's experiences at the hands- or rather, the tongue- of Mrs Black in the early part of the year, not to mention Harry's own accounts of Phineas Nigellus' frequent carpings, had been sure to install his son's friend's Muggle parents in a room with bare walls, and this seemed to be their first encounter with the portraits. Harry, creeping invisible along the corridor, was strongly tempted to wipe the hideous smile off 'Tartarus Black''s face, when Ben Granger, finding a pause in Tartarus' narrative, decided to tell the painting precisely, in turn, what he, a dentist, thought of the former wizard's teeth, and, in rather graphic, not to say medical terms, describe the processes of decay and malformation going on in each tooth, and the decidedly painful methods that would be necessary to correct them. Tartarus was, of course, only a painting of a long-dead and long-toothless wizard, but none the less, when the Muggle began to lovingly describe the feel and sound of a drill boring through enamel and dentine, the painting fell silent.

"There can sometimes be quite a bit of blood involved," Ben added, conversationally, to the portrait, in apparent reply to one of its earlier insults, "I agree. Whether it's muddy or not depends on what you've been eating, really, I suppose. But then, I always thought a dirty mouth had more to do with the rubbish some people choose to speak with it, didn't you, Susan?"

"Quite."

Silently, Harry slid along the corridor. Then, at the top of the stairs, and feeling slightly ashamed of himself after just mentally applauding their efforts, he cleared his throat.

"Merry Christmas." To their credit, neither of Hermione's parents jumped particularly far.

He found his friends in what had once been a parlour. Seldom used since the Order of the Phoenix- who generally preferred to eat in the kitchen, where running water kept some of the more exotic denizens of the property at bay- took over the house, the queer, oval shaped room was none the less among the few on the ground floor large enough to support a Christmas tree of the height that Fred and George had brought home a few days before Harry, Ron, and the others had returned from school. He, and the rest, had carefully arranged their gifts to one another around it last night, and it was here, responding to an automatic reflex of childhood that sixteen years had not yet erased, that they gravitated first on Christmas morning.

Harry slipped quietly through the open door, taking care not to tread on any wrapping paper. Hermione had just presented Ron with his gift- a compact, smart looking pair of omnioculars. Ron was struggling to resist the temptation to fiddle with them long enough to thank his friend properly, and having considerable difficulty.

"Merry Christmas!" Ron- after first giving a sharp glare at his sister until she looked away, amused, leant forward and kissed Hermione on the cheek. The bushy-haired girl half-raised her eyebrows, and returned the kiss in kind, as Ron lifted an odd, irregularly shaped package wrapped in predominantly green wrapping paper into her hands. As she thanked him, and sat back on her knees to unwrap it, Ron watching her anxiously, Ginny paced around the small living room, waiting for her boyfriend to make his appearance. She and Ron had been the first up, each anticipating an early move over to the Burrow for Christmas dinner, only to be promptly scolded by their mother for expecting the Grangers to be up so early on Christmas morning after a tiring journey by "those funny things Muggles move about in." Ginny was half-inclined to suspect that, despite the family having owned a car themselves for a year or so, Molly Weasley still half thought that Mr and Mrs Granger had arrived at Grimmauld Place from High Wycombe by horse and cart.

Hermione lifted a large book from the wrapping, leaving several smaller objects to rustle around inside it.

"People and Creatures: Wizardly Ethics towards Magical Life," she read, "A Study and A Proposition, by E.L.S. Blitzbottle and I.C.C. Chesterfield." Hermione looked up. Ron shifted from foot to foot.

"I still think all this SPEW stuff is nonsense myself," he said apologetically, "But Charlie's worked with this Blitzbottle bloke when they had to go to Hungary, and he managed to sort out getting us an advance copy from the publisher. It won't be out properly till next June." Ron shrugged. "I don't know if it's much of a present." He knelt down next to her, and fished a letter and envelope out of the packaging. "He wrote you a letter- they're trying to set up some sort of enquiry into how magical creatures get treated, changing some of the laws." The boy looked at Hermione, trying to gauge her opinion. "Like I said," he said hastily, "I don't really get it myself- but if you do want to get involved... well, this seems like the way to... well,"

Hermione blinked rapidly for a moment or two, looking down at the letter and book with a thoughtful expression.

"At least you're not the only nutter," Ron finished, and then flinched.

Hermione looked up at him sharply, and then gave him a sudden, impulsive hug.

"That's wonderful, Ron," she told him "Thank you." She took hold of the book, then looked doubtfully at him, and started to set it down, but her eyes followed it hungrily. Ron smirked.

Harry grinned gleefully, and took a few stealthy steps across the room. A quick glance had been enough to assure him that his presents were still unopened. Now... Ginny was walking back and forth, a little impatient- waiting for him to make an entrance, the invisible boy suspected. Careful to make no noise over the rustle of wrapping paper, Harry tried to slip around behind her as Ron teased Hermione.

"Oh, go on," he told her. "I know you. You'll be no use to anyone now till you've read a bit of it, will you?"

"Probably not," Hermione admitted. "I- just a chapter though, I don't want to abandon you all for Christmas Day."

"You're doing better than Harry," Ron observed. "At least you've got up- Ginny, you'll wear out the carpet."

Ginny spun on her heel, flinging out a hand in exasperation. Harry staggered back, narrowly avoiding her.

"Couldn't you have woken him up?" She sighed impatiently at her brother.

"It's Christmas Day, Gin," Ron protested. "Give him a bit of time in bed, won't you?"

Ginny's eyes sparkled.

"Don't... even... say it," Ron groaned. "Some days I just think I should stick my foot in my mouth to start with. It'd save time."

Harry slid back against the wall, and moved stealthily along it.

Ginny folded her arms.

"Well, if he doesn't get up soon, I'm going to open my present anyway," she remarked, with an air of finality, and leant back against the wall- or, at least, that was her intention.

Ron and Hermione both looked up in surprise as Ginny apparently slumped against thin air, and raised her eyebrows slightly. Harry coughed, regained his balance, and, supporting the girl, wished them a Merry Christmas, pushing back the hood of his cloak. As he did so, Ginny turned, her mouth twitching.

"What a surprise, Harry," she purred, calmly. "You made me jump," she added, in a deadpan tone.

"Did I? I'm so sorry, Gin." Harry responded with equal sincerity. "Happy Christmas." He leant closer. Ginny restrained him with a hand held out against his chest, and a severe quirk of one eyebrow.

"One does not kiss severed heads, Mr Potter."

"Sorry?"

"The cloak. You would appear to be missing most of Harry Potter. I'm quite fond of some of him."

"Oh, right!" Harry looked down at the absence of himself, and quickly shed the garment.

"That's better, thank you." Ginny let her hand drop. "If I want to kiss unattached heads, I'll charm one of Mrs Black's lovely little trophies, thanks all the same."

"Will this do?" Harry straightened his clothes. Ginny looked at him appraisingly.

"Let's try a test run, shall we?"

* * *

"Isn't the food ready yet?" Dudley scowled around the kitchen. 

"Not yet, darling." Petunia Dursley struggled across the kitchen floor, trying to carry a bowl of vegetables in one hand and a large factory farm turkey in the other- her husband Vernon had no intention of wasting his hard earned salary on keeping some small bird in the lap of luxury, as he put it. Dudley elbowed her out of his way and stomped across the kitchen to get hold of the corkscrew.

"Do be careful, poppet," Petunia regained her balance. "You wouldn't want me to drop the dinner, would you?"

"Can't you just cook the thing?" Dudley sulked. He'd managed to get hold of fifteen new videos for Christmas, and six or seven games for his Playstation, and was in a hurry to have his Christmas dinner and go up to his room for a bit of entertainment.

"It takes time, Duddy-kins," his mother patted his cheek.

"You should have bloody got up earlier then. Some Christmas this is," Dudley stomped out. Mrs Dursley hurried over to the oven and turned it on. Dear Dudley did get a little excitable at this time of year- it was only natural, of course, the boy was growing up- Petunia was proud of her strong darling of a young man- and he knew it, so of course he always wanted his Christmas to be as perfect as it had been when he'd been a little boy.

Petunia set to peeling potatoes as Vernon shouted at the television in the next room. In the old days, she would have had the boy to help with some of the jobs at this point. Christmas was better without the boy around, of course- staring with those nasty greedy eyes he must have got from his father at poor Dudley's toys, and always, always when she was beginning to relax seeming to... to look at her in a way that reminded her of her sister. Petunia looked hard at the fairy lights dangling from the guttering around the conservatory, and blinked until she felt better. Her idiot sister. Marrying a vagabond... and a dangerous vagabond. She'd brought it on herself. Her and that... unnatural power of hers. She'd been a fool to think that maybe she'd been too hard on the boy. It was just that... hearing that the... the man that had killed Lily was free again... she'd wanted to understand.

Silly. She had everything that she wanted. The boy was gone. Vernon had cleaned out all the rubbish from his room, burned anything that looked unnatural that had been left behind, and sold anything else. She had her husband, her nice, normal, _safe_ husband, and her darling boy. Dudley would grow up in a world without Dark Lords or magic. The Dursleys of Privet Drive were nice, normal, respectable people, and nothing out of the ordinary happened to them. Ever.

In the distance, as she gazed out of the window, chopped carrots, and wondered if the pale clouds overhead would bring snow (Vernon would curse all the lazy workers who would use it as an excuse to lengthen their Christmas holiday, and Dudley would hate it because it would be too cold to go and sit with his friends in the park), a pale bird caught her eye. A seagull, perhaps. Petunia Dursley tutted. A seagull so far inland would mean a storm to come.

She washed her hands in the sink and started to wash Brussel Sprouts. When she looked up again, the bird was much closer, wings spread wide as it circled down. She peered at its shape in the dim sky. It was not a seagull. Petunia's heart jumped slightly. The bird's head was rounded, wide, and its plumage a brilliant white. She looked around... fearfully. In the living room, Vernon had turned the television up. Clint Eastwood was shooting somebody. Or somebody was shooting Clint Eastwood. Upstairs, Dudley's new sound system was, inch by inch, taking Privet Drive to pieces by vibration alone.

Petunia frowned, for a moment lost. She should have looked outside, surely, made sure that no one outside would see... an owl... flying in the daytime, flying to their house... but the only thing that mattered was that her darling boy and husband ought not see it. Wretched bird. It would only spoil their Christmas.

"Shoo," she hissed, quietly, trying to make sure she wasn't heard, and shook her dishcloth at the owl. It had perched on the dustbin and peered in through the window with implacable golden eyes. "Go away." Petunia snatched up a vase of water from the windowsill. The owl watched her. Someone walked past, peering over the hedge at the bottom of the garden, and Mrs Dursley cringed- but it was only Mrs Figg. The silly old woman was getting dafter in her old age. She raised one hand to wave cheerily to Petunia- or perhaps it was to the owl, you could never tell, really, ridiculous old crone, and moved on. Strangely, it almost seemed as if the boy's white owl ducked its head to her in reply, before swivelling its gaze back to its owner's aunt again.

"Shoo! Go home!" Petunia unlatched the window, meaning to throw the water over the bird- but somehow the window was knocked open, and the snowy owl flew in, perching on the edge of the sink and looking at her, unblinking. Petunia wavered. She started to lift the vase again, and Hedwig- yes, that was the peculiar name the boy had given it- followed the movement with her eyes, calm, almost smug. Petunia put the vase down. Hedwig clicked her beak softly, and held out one leg abruptly. Mrs Dursley flinched, then jumped as, in the next room, whichever one out of Clint Eastwood and his opponent had not been shot the first time shot somebody else. Hedwig's feathers rippled in annoyance, but otherwise she remained, watching, waiting. Something in that stare reminded Petunia of her nephew- and something reminded her through him of her sister.

Fingers shaking, her bony nose twitching nervously at the very sight of the owl's horrible talons, she took hold of the thin piece of card tied to the bird's leg, and untied the string. Once again, Hedwig clicked her beak, this time impatiently. Finally, as Dudley's feet stamped across the floor overhead, she pulled the small card free. Hedwig ruffled her feathers, turned, and, pausing only to peck at the raw bacon Petunia had set to one side to lay over the turkey breast, launched herself out into the December sky.

Mrs Dursley's shoulder's hunched together, and, glancing fearfully over her shoulder, she pulled open the card. It was small, quite plain, and bore no pre-printed message or glitter.

"Dear Aunt,

I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas, and thank you for the photograph you sent me this term- it was very welcome. As you know, I'm spending the holidays with my friends, the Weasleys and Grangers, and having a lovely time so far. I hope- I really do hope- that you have a nice Christmas too.

Harry."

Petunia leant against the sink and wept.

* * *

Harry lifted two parcels- the one a regular cube, the other a thick, flat bundle, from the now badly diminished pile under the tree. He had given his presents to Ron and Hermione- a small scale set of model Quidditch figures for Ron, intended to help him plan tactics before testing them out on his team- a suggestion from Oliver Wood, whose Captain at Puddlemere United apparently found it helpful, and a hefty book of Myths and Legends of the Ancient Magical World for Hermione. Now he turned to Ginny. 

"I... er.." his cheeks coloured slightly. "I hope you don't mind." Harry drew breath. "I hope you don't mind, but I bought you two presents, actually." He shifted from foot to foot. Ginny lifted an eyebrow interestedly. Harry offered her the cube. She took it by one corner, and, pausing to read the gift tag and smile briefly, opened the wrapping paper. "Well, actually, in a way I suppose it's four..." Harry considered, blushing deeper and trying to avoid looking at Ron, for fear of what his friend might think of his spending lavishly on his family. "But really it's two," he finished, a little weakly, as two of the three books half-slid from the parcel. Ginny caught them deftly, and, flicking a quizzical look at her boyfriend, scanned the broad hardbacks spines for a second, and quickly sorted them into the correct order, before studying the cover of the first volume.

"The Fellowship of the Ring?"

Hermione made a soft noise of understanding.

Ginny pursed her lips, thinking, and continued, "Isn't that the..."

Harry nodded.

"I remember you wondered a long time ago about how we fit into the Muggles' world." He caught her gaze. "We can't hide from their imaginations."

Ginny's eyes lit up. Harry felt a certain amount of relief. He hadn't been certain about buying Muggle books as a present, but- even without knowing yet whether she would actually like reading them, the interest that shone in her face told him the decision had been wise. Now...

"Now it's my turn," she lifted up a round parcel of her own, and offered it to him, watching his face nervously. Harry smiled at her, taking it and feeling the spherical shape puzzledly.

"Open it." Ginny licked her lips. Harry, holding the seemingly fragile object carefully, peeled off the wrapping paper.

"You grew up a Muggle, Harry," she smiled. "Here's a new world for you."

Harry drew the globe from its packaging. It was about the size of a football, made from a frosted, glass-like substance, on which the lines of islands and continents were etched in precise, breathtaking detail. He turned it- and sounds whispered, waves broke on the ocean, the wind moved in the trees.

"It's not much really-" Ginny told him anxiously. "They don't have Memory Stranding or anything, and... well, I saw it in Flourish and Blotts, but I just thought that... since you've not been able to travel yet... and..."

Harry looked at her, over the rim of the world.

"It's beautiful."

She subsided, grinning.

"You like it, then? I wasn't quite sure." Ginny paused. "Although I imagine you'd pretend you liked it, even if you didn't."

"And what would you do about that?"

"Oh, Veritaserum isn't as hard to make as some people claim, Mr Potter."

"Well then," Harry scooped up his second parcel once more, and tossed it lightly to Ginny. "Let's hear some more of the truth."

Ginny sat down, putting the soft parcel on one knee and quickly skimming off the tape with one forefinger.

"Fabric?" She felt inside the parcel. "Material... velvet?"

"Not quite." The boy waited. "It used to be, but I had Madam Malkin put quite a few protection spells on it."

Ginny unfolded the coat. It was cut long, in a deep green that brought out the colour of her hair with a precision that almost _chimed _with Harry's influence, and made from a thick, velvet material. She held it up to examine.

"I took a record of your measurements from your DA uniform," Harry explained.

"It's beautiful, Harry." Ginny repeated his words back to him. "It's just right." Ginny looked at him. The coat was simple- unadorned and, although attractively cut, a practical thing rather than a fashion statement... but it was in a way that which touched her. Not one thing or the other. Certainly not one of Harry's uncle's old socks- she remembered Ron and Harry's tales of Vernon Dursley's insulting efforts with a certain anger... but not an ornament or toy either. The two combined.

"Put it on."

She did so, and Harry's face split into a grin.

"Now it's beautiful."

"Oh," Ginny winced, with a playful smirk. "Nine out of ten for cheese, Mr Potter." She turned her head. "Harry will now apologise, Hermi... oh... ne..." Harry followed her eyes. While he and Ginny had talked, Ron and Hermione had rediscovered one of their former methods of passing the time. Quietly, Harry and Ginny moved towards the door.

* * *

It was nearly midday by the time the group had managed to assemble themselves, their assorted parts and pieces and presents and paraphernalia in the kitchen, and waited, shifting from foot to foot as Mad-Eye Moody prodded the gently burning log fire with a (by now also gently burning) walking stick. 

"Don't be so hasty," he chided Fred, who had mutinously started forward with his particular bundle of luggage- a box of Weasley's Wizard Christmas Crackers about which Harry would have felt considerably more comfortable if the crackers contained within did not seem to be nudging each other and sniggering in a very twinnish fashion. "A very Merry Christmas you'd have, if He Who Must Not Be Named managed to get his claws into the Floo Network and whisk you off." Moody's eye spun aggressively. "There's a reason the Aurors had the thing shut down after the Ministry Incident, you know, lad. No harm in taking elementary precautions."

Harry caught Ginny's eye. She mouthed two words at him, and he smirked.

"What's so funny then, Mr Potter?" Moody's back was turned. The boy winced. "And here's Lupin saying you're a quick learner," Mad-Eye observed gruffly. Remus, also in the party, gave a tired smile in Harry's direction, and hoisted the turkey in his arms a little more defensively.

Ron and George began tapping their feet- until each received a lethal look from their mother. Arthur, diplomatically, stepped forward.

"I'm sure it's safe now, Alastor." He opened the pot of Floo powder. Moody stood up, shrugging his shoulders with a cracking sound of old bones and leathery skin.

"It's your house, Weasley," he stepped back. "But I daresay we've done enough."

Mr Weasley nodded, and threw the Floo powder into the flames.

"The Burrow!" he shouted, as the flame flashed green, and strode forward, disappearing from sight.

Molly came next, clutching a large basket of potatoes for the roasting, and with Remus holding her elbow they vanished together. By unspoken agreement, after Arthur- who had been in the house several times since the family had left in any case, searching for any sign of traps or ambushes laid by the enemy- the rest of the party- Fred and George, Molly and Remus, Ben and Susan, Bill and Moody, who, like Lupin, claimed nowhere else to go for the festivities and had been pressed to join the Weasleys for Christmas practically at the point of Molly's toasting fork, Ron and Hermione, and finally Harry and Ginny- stepped through pair by pair. Tonks had family of her own to spend the day with, and Mundungus Fletcher had urgent business of one nefarious persuasion or another to attend to. Harry rather suspected that more than one household up and down the country would be receiving an unannounced visitor during the night hours- although probably without reindeer.

Ron hesitated on the edge of the fireplace. A queer, almost incredulous look flashed across his face. For a second, it seemed to Harry that spiders walked in the reflections in his friend's eyes. He looked quickly at Ginny. Her eyes flickered, darting to and fro, distracting herself.

The family home. But the family's not the same any more.

Hermione put a hand on Ron's arm, half comforting, half questioning, and he looked up sharply, angry for a moment. He peered at her, half-seeing, then looked back at Harry and Ginny.

"Right, come on then," Ron nearly pulled the Muggle-born girl into the fire. As Hermione disappeared, a sharp intake of breath drew Harry's attention to her parents. Ben and Susan had both been warned ahead of time- as far as one could- about this somewhat peculiar mode of transport, but had watched the departures of the rest of the family and friends with a certain alarm none the less. The younger couple looked at each other, and let go one another's hands with a smooth, simultaneous grace. Until that moment, Harry hadn't even realised that they had connected.

Ginny buttoned her new coat- and offered her hand to Ben Granger, just as Harry took Susan's wrist.

"It's a lot easier than it looks," Harry told her. "You don't really have to think about it- just say the name of the place you want to go as clearly as you can."

"And don't run words together," Ginny added. "Particularly not directions. 'Diagonally' can be quite embarrassing, can't it, Mr Potter?" She helped Ben over the grate, where he stood for a moment, looking in wonderment at the green flames licking about his legs.

"Yes, thank you, Miss Weasley," Harry gave his girlfriend an old-fashioned look, and led Susan towards the fire. Ginny and Hermione's father disappeared with a flash. Susan gave a faint start, and then chuckled to herself. Harry looked curiously at her.

"I'm sorry, Harry," the woman smiled at herself. "For years I've... well, to be honest I've envied my daughter a little- although you must never tell her that, you realise," she added, with a conspiratorial look. "And now here we are, about to travel by magic, and my knees are knocking. When I think of some of the things she's told me that she's done- that you've all done... well, you must think we're rather wet, I'm afraid."

Harry shook his head.

"Have you ever met Hagrid?" he asked. Susan pursed her lips.

"Big man? Looks a little... well.." she stopped, tactfully, but managed to convey an impression of size and unkemptness with one hand gesture. "I think we saw him at King's Cross once, yes." She nodded. "And Hermione's mentioned him of course. Rather a gentle man, for all he doesn't look it?"

Harry nodded.

"The first time I met him- the first time I met anyone magical that I can remember," he smiled, remembering, "He scared me out of my wits." They stepped into the fire. "The Burrow!" Harry shouted, and, as the flames whirled up around them, a faint mischievous edge caught his smile, and he added, loud enough for Susan to hear over the flames, "He also tried to turn my cousin into a pig."

* * *

Albus Dumbledore sat in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and looked down at its lone patient sadly. There was a green party hat perched askew on his head, and his hands idly fiddled with three small Christmas Cracker novelty puzzles at once, combining, resolving, and scrambling them again in an absent-minded fit of movement. 

Blaise Zabini's dark hair lay lifelessly around her on the pillow. It had grown an inch or two since she had been laid low, he noticed. Now the bandages had been unwrapped from her head, and it rocked gently back and forth, her lips moving faintly in time with her eyes, rolling slowly beneath their lids.

She was recovering. The fractures in her skull had almost healed, the bone knitted, strengthening again, and Madam Pomfrey and the three neuro-medi-witches she had consulted assured Dumbledore that Blaise should suffer no brain damage- although, of course, they would have to wait until she woke to know for sure.

Gently, his aged fingers brushed against her cheek.

"If it is in my power," Dumbledore whispered quietly, "I shall keep this school and all of you safe for as long as I live." He bowed his head. "If it is in my power."

* * *

Harry and Susan staggered out into the kitchen at the Burrow. Susan let go of his hand and quickly looked round, mentally checking that both Hermione and Ben were present and intact. 

"Well." Hermione's father kept saying, shaking his head and scratching the back of his neck. "Well." His daughter gave him an amused glance, and went on with helping Ron and Ginny to set various parts and pieces of the Christmas dinner down on the table. While Harry put his bundle somewhere he hoped it wouldn't get away, and Molly scurried around her old kitchen, almost too taken up with the preparations for the meal to allow herself to reflect on the strangeness of being back here again, the Boy Who Lived looked around the largest room of the Weasleys' home.

On one level, the Burrow was unchanged. Still the same somewhat chaotic mishmash of building extensions that had seemed like a good idea at the time- Harry swore the main staircase rose up out of what had once been a pantry- and still the same impression of general madness- except that the life had gone from the place. No knitting twitched in the corner, no pans scrubbed themselves in the sink- although a large washing up bowl quickly flipped itself into it and filled with water in response to a well-aimed spell from Hermione, while Arthur levitated assorted vegetables and vegetable peelers into it with the speed of bullets while he watched. A thought struck him and he looked quickly across at the place on the wooden wall where the family clock had hung- it was no longer there. Harry looked away, guessing the reason why, and met Moody's normal eye for just a second. He could easily imagine the long, slightly curved, ostrich-like hand labelled 'Percy', ticking frantically against the space marked 'Mortal Peril'.

"Oh no you don't." Ginny was facing down the twins. "I know your idea of Christmas decorations, thank you very much." She put her hands on her hips.

"We can't imagine..."

"... What you're talking about?" Fred and George stared at her, scandalised. "We're hurt, Ginny, quite baffled. After all the effort we've gone to in the past." They drew their wands. "Why, think," Fred said to George, "Of that lovely wreath of greenery we made for our dear sister's room for her fifth Christmas?"

"Beautiful," George sniffed, "A triumph."

"Spindelius Bugweed is not festive, idiots!" Ginny drew a wand from her coat sleeve. "Wands away, or there'll be two extra Christmas turkeys roasting this winter."

The first bird in question whipped through the air between them, closely followed by Bill, trying to chase it with the stuffing as Molly summoned it to the table for a preliminary examination. Fred and George, their pride wounded, backed down.

"That's better." Ginny swished the wand through the air in a complicated pattern.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, as Harry was about to retrieve his wand, preferably before Ginny could return it to her sleeve again, a faint creak came from the ceiling. The Grangers looked up nervously. A flicker of movement drew Harry's attention to a tiny hole in the plasterwork, just to the side of a great oak beam- and a loop of coloured paper, entwined in another one, slid carefully out, pausing as if sniffing the air and, apparently satisfied, leapt across the ceiling towards the next beam, flinging itself across the gap with wild abandon and pulling a long, multi-coloured chain after it. As Harry's eyes followed it, another crossed it, leaping in another direction. A faint shower of dust and startled spiders- all of ordinary size, although Harry noticed Ron stepped surreptitiously over to the edge of the room- cascaded down from it, and Arthur murmured apologetically to his guests, while bringing his own wand to bear to help Ginny with the decorating.

"Tinselsortia!" he heard Ginny shout, shooting a slightly embarrassed grin at him as she did so, and a sparkling, glittery twist of foil erupted from the wand she now held- George's, he suspected, to judge from how he was patting his pockets in perplexment- and coiled its way across the room, wriggling towards and just missing the doorframe. Ginny started to raise her wand again. The Boy-Who-Lived flicked a glance at her, and, twisting his mouth in a familiar sibilant hiss, spoke.

"Climb."

The tinsel rose up, paused, and leapt, coiling over the doorframe and, in response to the boy's continued instructions, began to wrap itself around it.

Harry coughed. Ron and Hermione gaped at him. The boy shrugged.

"It's got to be some..."

He paused, and kicked his brain into another gear.

"Sorry, it's got to be some use for something," he observed. The other two members of the trio looked hard at him. Harry gestured towards his girlfriend defensively. "Well, she's the one who fiddled about with the spell- I can't help it if it's still snakey tinsel, can I?"

"Snakey tinsel?" Ron muttered witheringly.

"Ignore him, Harry," Hermione sighed. "He's just being jealous again."

"Jealous?" Ron stared at her. "Of the Boy Who Lived and his unique power to control Christmas decorations?" He groaned. "This is a mad house."

"It's not unique. Little Tommy can do it too." Harry protested, ordering the tinsel to twist its way along the beam and avoid dislodging any of the bows of holly that had seemingly grown out along the oak.

"A Dark Art I'm sure he finds _so_ useful," Ginny remarked. "Mind you, it might be a bit complicated for him... gah, sorry!" Two streamers had collided in mid-air. Ginny's curled away at a diagonal and snuggled around the oil lamp for a moment, before attempting to molest a paper chain, while Ron's dropped from the ceiling and fell across the turkey.

Mrs Weasley removed it, with infinite dignity, and turned on her youngest son.

"It was my fault," Ginny admitted, with a wince.

"Never mind, Ginny, darling. Do try to concentrate a little more in future though, won't you?" Molly turned again to Ron. "Now, if you want to make yourself useful, I suggest you go up to the loft and find where we put all the cutlery and crockery, instead of flinging Christmas decorations about like a poltergeist." Molly's lips pressed together. "March!" She looked over Ron's shoulder. "Harry, dear, would you mind giving him a hand? I know you'd like to see a bit more of the house as well- you know we're always happy for this to be a home for you as well, of course."

Harry, with a guilty start, gave up on an attempt to persuade two strands of tinsel to follow Fred and George around the room, and followed Ron to the staircase. Behind him, he heard Mrs Weasley turn back to the throng.

"As for the rest of you- no, Bill, that isn't how you stuff a turkey... for Hecate's sake, no... Fred, put those down this instant, they don't know where you've been... oh, no, no thank you, my dear (this to Ben Granger), you're guests, I wouldn't dream of asking you to... well, yes, perhaps, if you'd like to... George... oh, all right, Fred again, _whichever_ of you it is, leave that alone!"

Ron scuttled up the stairs as fast as he could, Harry close behind.

"I don't know why she gets so worked up about it," the redhead complained. "Mum's the best cook anywhere- she's even better than Dobby, so why she's got to... oh, forget it," Ron grumbled. "I know," he looked back at Harry. "I know. It's like Hermione and homework, isn't it. She's so used to being top of the class that she'll jump through six hoops backwards to make sure she stays top of the class." They passed Ron's room, and his fingers hesitated over the door handle. Then he drew them back. "We'll be sleeping here tonight, anyway," he told Harry. "We can have a proper look round again after dinner."

"I thought we were going back to Grimmauld Place this evening?"

"That was before you went and bought Dad that Fellymission thing. You wait, he'll be down in the garden shed with it before the rest of us have finished the pudding." Ron smirked. "We're staying put for a bit."

Harry climbed the stairs after him, a doubtful cast crossing his features for a moment. He wasn't at all sure of the safety of the Burrow overnight- but he discarded the thought with an effort.

_Let them have their Christmas. After all they've been through..._ _no_,

Harry corrected himself,

After all we've been through... Let us all have our Christmas. We deserve it.

Ivy and holly crept up the banister, keeping pace with them as they climbed. They passed Ginny's room, the door left open, and several dusty boxes and crates still lying on the bed.

"We packed in a bit of a hurry," Ron told him, apologetically- the same, slightly haunted look on his face as before. He'd lived in the Burrow all his life before Hogwarts, Harry realised. To Harry, Privet Drive had never been a home. For Ron, for most of his life this had been the only home he'd ever known.

"Come on," Harry took the lead, hurrying up past the next landing and keeping the conversation going, hoping to distract his friend from the next door. "We'd better get those things for your Mum- I don't think I've ever been up in the attic- what's it like?"

"Big," Ron told him. "We tried putting up partitions inside once, but the ghoul kept knocking them down."

"Oh, right?" Harry had forgotten the ghoul. He tried to remember what, in actual fact, a ghoul was. Professor Quirrell had covered the different types of undead once in a first year lesson a long time ago, but Harry rather suspected he and Ron had been discussing some Quidditch game or other in the back row at the time.

Ron reached the top landing and jumped up, reaching out towards a small handhold carved into the wooden planks that made up the ceiling on this top floor. He missed by inches and swore.

"Give me a hand, would you?"

Harry reached for his wand, and paused, feeling his empty pockets, rolling his eyes and looking back at Ron.

"The sooner her birthday comes, the happier I'll be," he told Ginny's brother with a sigh. "What do I do?" he asked, changing places with his friend, "Just pull it?"

"Right." Ron lifted Harry into the air with his wand, since Harry's own was missing in action, and the dark-haired boy pulled hard down on the handhold. Several planks pivoted down to form a small flight of makeshift steps up to the attic. As Harry settled back on the ground, he had a fleeting glimpse of a grey shape peering down, followed by a frantic clank of chains. Ron set off up the steps, pausing at the top.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," the red head moaned in disgust, gesturing into one corner of the attic. "Look at that."

"I can't, unless you get off the steps."

Ron climbed up into the loft, allowing Harry to follow him. The rough, l-shaped space at the top of the house was lit only by the copious gaps in the tiles of the roof, and the floor covered in boxes, crates, and trunks of various sizes and shapes. In the corner Ron pointed to, chains clanked rapidly and quietly, as if whoever wore them was shaking, and a hastily dragged piece of canvas quaked in the gap between a heavy black trunk and the angle of the roof.

"Wimp," Ron muttered. "Useless thing. Ghosts aren't supposed to be frightened of visitors," he sighed loudly, before turning away with an irritated grunt. "Come on then, let's have a look through... I think most of the stuff we packed up when we went to London's over here." They clambered over several boxes, moving away from the terrified ghoul. "Peeves would have him for breakfast, wouldn't he?" the boy remarked.

"I wonder if he ever dropped water bombs on Tom Riddle," Harry pondered.

"What, our gh-- oh, right, Peeves." Ron mulled it over, opening a box and looking through it. "Nah, this one's from Dad's study. Load of old junk." He pulled out a computer keyboard which appeared to have had three children's toys- Harry thought he recognised a Transformer whose head Dudley had once eaten in in a fit of rage- glued to it, and passed it to Harry by way of example, before moving on. "Probably," Ron mused, referring to Peeves. "He blew a raspberry at Dumbledore that time, didn't he?"

"Dumbledore blew it straight back," Harry chuckled. "What about this one?" He lifted the lid of a box. "It looks new- oh." A long scroll uncurled, and twitched slightly. Ron shook his head.

"No- oh, that's the family tree. Have a look." He knelt beside another parcel. "Where are the things?"

Harry flattened out the scroll. A beautifully detailed tree had been drawn on the parchment, moving and twisting slightly in some imagined wind- the name 'Weasley' cunningly inscribed in the whorls and grooves of the bark of the trunk, and at each division and twist of the complex architecture of the bows overhead, a name was written. He found Ron and Ginny's names, high up on the edge of the foliage. Below them, picked out in gold, were:

Arthur Weasley-Molly Prewett

He glanced along the line of Ron's aunts and uncles. Bilius, Fortenbras, Eugenia, Hecate (not the goddess, he assumed), Perceval, Robin, and finally Arthur himself. Molly's brothers were not recorded in the Weasley family tree, nor any of her ancestors. He thought of Jonas Prewett and Helena Merienchamps and smiled warmly.

"You want to watch out, or you'll be on there pretty soon," Ron observed, looking up from trying to pry open a crate with his wand. "If I know Mum, she'll be telling Ginny the facts of life while they're stuffing the turkey."

"I don't think Ginny needs to be-" Harry broke off, blushing, as Ron raised his eyebrows. "That's not quite what I meant to... I mean... well, we haven't done anything, all right!" his face flamed. "Well, I mean, obviously, we've... but nothing we wouldn't... "

"I really don't want to know, all right!" Ron said, hurriedly. "As far as I'm concerned, you two just walk through the school holding hands. OK?"

"Well, we've not done much more than--"

"I don't know that." Ron shuddered. "I have never known that, I do not know it, and I never will know it. Harry, the first, and preferably the only thing I ever want to hear about you and Ginny's s... love life is when I get to be uncle and godfather to baby Ron, all right?"

"It's a deal," Harry exclaimed with some relief. Then he frowned. "Who said anything about a baby Ron?" Harry's face coloured again. "Not that there's been any sort of thing that would mean that there might be a baby Ron, or a baby anyone, not with me and Ginny. Or me or anyone else. Or..."

"Lay off, Harry," Ron held his hands up in protest. Then he grinned. "You'd better make sure Mum has had that talk with Ginny sometime, though. Remember what your dad said in Dumbledore's office?" Ron looked sidelong at Harry. "You've seen that family tree... and Ginny's not short on brothers, is she?"

"What are you talking about?" Harry stared at his friend.

"I'm just saying, Potter," Ron smirked, opening another crate and giving a faint pleased grunt as he finally located the cutlery and started to unpack it absent-mindedly. "Whether you stay away from my kid sister or not's up to you," he allowed a faint caricature of a threatening expression to cross his face for a moment, before sliding into a distinctly twin-like grin, "But if you don't, either watch out, or use some of that famous Potter money to buy a house with _lots _of room for a nursery." He paused. Harry gave him an odd look. "What?" Ron frowned.

"Nothing," Harry observed in a deadpan tone, looking down at Ron's hands. "I was just wondering why you started talking about me getting Ginny pregnant, and how it didn't bother you... and then started sharpening the bread knife. That's all."

"Ah." Ron blinked. "Dunno."

A muffled explosion playfully shook the joists in the roofspace, and an appetising smell of sage and onion stuffing wafted up the flights of stairs. Under its blanket, Harry heard the ghoul take a mighty sniff.

"Come on," Ron passed several bags of knives and forks to his friend. They hurried down the stairs, finding the house veritably alive with decorations and greenery as they descended. Outside Fred and George's room, two vast clumps of mistletoe blocked their path.

"I told you," one muttered to the other. "It's flick then swish, not swish and wriggle."

"All right- but if Bill hadn't put that shield charm up round the roast potatoes..."

"Then Mum would have vapourised you," Bill came up the stairs behind the two bushes, who parted their foliage to reveal the somewhat chastened faces of the twins. He looked over their shoulders at Ron and Harry. "Come on, you two." He steered the two vegetative Weasleys in through their door. "Excuse the herbaceous border, Harry... now, Fred, don't pick at your berries. I found a rather good counter-curse for just this sort of thing in Luxor last year..."

Ron looked at Harry.

"This is..."

"A madhouse." Harry finished for him. "It's brilliant, though, Ron."

With Fred and George temporarily vanquished and fled the field of cuisine, the rest of the cooking proceeded rather more smoothly. While Molly tended to the turkey, Ben- who considered himself a rather accomplished cook- took charge of the vegetables, and fascinated Arthur by insisting on peeling and cooking them without magical assistance. Harry, who had on many occasions been expected to cook for the Dursleys, and spent many a mealtime imagining just what he'd like to add to Dudley's eighth rasher of bacon as additional seasoning, eagerly took over the management of the bread sauce in the latter stages of the campaign- once he had managed to re-acquire his wand with which to control the heat and stir the mixture.

"Thank you," he murmured as Ginny wordlessly passed it to him. The girl raised her eyebrows.

"Don't you like me keeping your wand warm?" she asked, quietly enough for Mrs Weasley, currently draining the turkey dish, not to hear. Harry's cheeks reddened, and Hermione, busily keeping her father's cookery in order, gave a faint snort.

"Be careful, though," Hermione nodded towards the bread sauce, which was beginning to bubble, but looking at Ginny. "It'd be a shame if it boiled over too soon."

Ginny's mouth snapped shut, with a curious keening noise. Harry gave her a puzzled look, then glanced at the elder of the two girls. Hermione smiled innocently at him.

"What?" Harry asked.

"Oh, nothing, Harry," Hermione's lips twitched. "Happy Christmas."

"Speaking of which," Susan sashayed into the room with a glass of wine in hand, and pointed out of the window.

"Well," Harry breathed. "Will you look at that?"

Outside, the snow had begun to fall.

**_

* * *

Author's Note: _**

Ack. Once again, Christmas fluff is a lot easier to write at Christmas than in August. Oh well, I'll say it was a deliberate pause to give everyone a chance to read Half-Blood Prince. Anyway, Chapter 37's already got plot running through it, so that ought to come a little more easily. At least other ideas have matured in the time on hold.

Now then:

Mademoiselle Phantom:

Ah, Gred and Forge. Round the twist, those two. I hope their Christmas antics read all right.

David 305:

Canned Pandemonium? Good one. I may throw in a reference to that next time the story visits their shop, if I may? As for Lupin and rhymes, yep, all those, and "Snoopin'" as well would work.

Wolf's scream:

I wasn't at all sure about that Hyde Park scene beforehand- the tone took a lot of tweaking, and sometimes Ginny felt a bit too insane, but eventually it seemed to come together. Glad you liked it.

XinnLajgin:

Thanks! Updated. :-) More to follow soon, hopefully, although not all in comic vein.


	37. Another Story of Christmas

**Chapter Thirty-Seven:** Another Story of Christmas

Other eyes watched the snow fall. A few dozen miles east from the Welsh border, and a few hours later, in the dark chill of the last hours of Christmas day, two young faces peered out from under a raised curtain, and turned to grin at each other.

"Do come away from the window, for Circe's sake," their mother sighed, looking back to her tapestry work before flicking her eyes across to her sister, snuggled in a big, comfortable chair by the fire, attempting to play cards with their father, a sturdy, gruff-faced gentle-voiced man with military eyes and moustache. A decade and a third separated them in age, not to mention a different mother, but Raina and her half-sister had always been close. "Kids," she exclaimed, smiling at the two six-year olds as she did so, to show them she meant no harm by it. "Don't you ever have any," she added, in a gently teasing tone.

"I heartily agree," her father told them both. He glanced at his married daughter's middle-aged husband. "Daughters especially, wouldn't you say, Mortimer?"

Mortimer laughed. He was a Muggle-born, like his father-in-law, and had learned in his school days to have a healthy respect for witches and their wands. He adopted a serious expression, and peered at his distorted reflection in one of the baubles of the Christmas tree. "Not in earshot of my wife and her sister, I wouldn't," he chuckled, and glanced at his two children. "Nor Bethany, for that matter... Beth, stop pulling your brother's hare."

"It's a rabbit, not a hare!" The unfortunately named Elgin snatched the toy rabbit away from his sister and protested its parentage in the same breath.

"I think he meant it as a pun," Elgin's aunt told him. "You'll understand when you're older."

"Yes, Auntie."

She winced.

"Makes you feel old, doesn't it?" Raina smiled. "I still can't get used to being a Mummy."

"Well," Elgin and Beth's grandfather pulled himself up to his feet, scattering cards to the floor. "Oh dear, my dear, I suppose you can see where that comes from... now, where was I... oh yes, how about opening that bottle of port?"

"Dad..."

"Oh, stuff and nonsense, it's Christmas." He chuckled, patting down his jacket for the corkscrew. "Besides, I've been around too long for drink to push me into an early grave. Where did I put that bottle?"

"I'll help you look." Raina set down her tapestry and got to her feet. She gave it a thoughtful look, and looked back up at her children. Elgin had climbed back on to the window seat and was gazing out through the curtains into the falling night snow, but Beth, having temporarily exhausted the entertainment value of her Christmas presents, was regarding the tapestry speculatively. On the part finished fabric, owls flitted about skittishly, trying to avoid the unfinished patches. "And don't you touch, miss."

The old man and his daughter moved towards the door, stepping over mounds of heaped wrapping paper on the worn carpet.

"Granddad?" Elgin's voice had a strange note in it. Mortimer looked up sharply, then forced himself to relax, letting his father in law take the lead.

"What is it, lad?" The older man exchanged a cautious glance with his daughters. He had been an Auror once, and his unmarried daughter had spent enough time near to the front line of the struggle to be wary of danger.

"Why are there men out there in the snow?"

Raina's sister joined her on her feet.

"Come away from the window, Elgin," she told him, an uncharacteristically commanding note in her tone.

"But, Auntie, why are there..."

"Granddad will tell you in a moment."

The older man ran a hand through his thinning hair and moved quietly to the curtains, his hand slipping almost unconsciously to the wand-pocket in the side of his trousers. Mortimer rose, drawing his own wand outright and gesturing to his wife, sister-in-law, and children, to move back. His father in-law crouched, trying to show as little of himself against the light as he could, and peered through a gap out into the night. For a moment his narrow eyes creased still further- and then he laughed. Faint strains of voices could be heard now, voices uplifted in song.

"O come, all ye Faithful,

Joyful and Triumphant,"

"Why, bless me," he straightened his back, a smile spreading almost naturally across his features, and only Raina was close enough to see the shake of relief in his hand. "Carol singers. How traditional."

"O come ye, o come ye,"

"How tuneless," Mortimer winced. "Someone can't sing." His sister-in-law gave him a scathing glance. "Well, they can't," he protested in his defence.

"To Bethlehem,"

"Oh, stuff and nonsense, lad." Raina's father tutted, throwing back the curtains. The little group of figures huddled in dark coats under a lantern held on a long pole, song-sheets held in one gloved hand, while the other batted away the flakes of snow. They turned gratefully towards the light. "We must invite them in for a glass of port." The man shuffled towards the hall door in oversized slippers. Raina knelt in front of her children.

"Remember what Daddy and I've always told you about Muggle visitors?" she asked, brightly. "No magic."

"Not even if it's by accident?"

"Setting Mrs Greene's hat on fire was not an accident, Bethany... but no, not even by accident."

"Ohhh." The children pouted.

"Now, your Aunt will keep an eye on you." Raina stood up. Her father left the hall door open- so, she thought, they'd be in for a fine gust of cold air when he opened the front door, and fiddled with the door latch. She and Mortimer hurriedly stowed their wands out of sight, and her sister did the same. She watched as the front door opened, and the lead carol singer looked again, smiling, towards the house. He was a tall man, with curiously youthful features under dead-looking, grey black hair.

The glamour lifted. In a moment, the singing was gone. A trick of the mind. The shapes were different. The people... changed. The hooded, inhuman, colourless face looked again, smiling, towards the house, and fear froze her mind. All around the one... the one her mind could not name, no more than she could move or cry out a warning, all of them were changed, shadowy figures in dark robes and pale masks, and the lanterns they held aloft were twisted wands.

One stepped forward, past he who she could not, dared not name, and swung down his wand as her father, in the hall, tried to close the door. Words she could not hear were spoken outside, and a green flash of light lit up the snow.

There was no cry. A crackling sound, a heavy thump against the wall, and something that had been her father fell past the open door.

"Get behind me!" She heard her sister shout, asRaina's husband swore and tried to pull her back from the window. The children screamed. Some toy broke under Raina's foot as she staggered back, and even through the terror she heard Elgin's voice rise in momentary rage- but now there were footsteps in the hall.

"Incendio!" Behind her, the fireplace roared into life, and her sister desperately fumbled amongst the decorations and paperchains for Floo powder on the mantelpiece.

"Reduc--" Mortimer swung his wand, trying to shield his wife with his body even as his sister in law tried to protect the children, as a dark figure almost floated in through the doorway, feet hidden beneath its robes.

"Protego!" Her husband's spell cracked and broke against the shield. The first Death Eater raised its wand- hers, Raina realised, through a haze of shock. The voice was a woman's.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Elgin and Beth's father fell a scant few paces from their grandfather's body.

One death had closed Raina's mind. A second opened it. She screamed, hurling curse after curse at the woman in the black robe as the fire roared behind her.

"I can't get the Floo open..." she heard her sister sob.

"Cassio!" The shriek from outside could have broken the window alone, but the spell completed the violence, and three more Death Eaters strode through the ruin. Still, she lashed her magic at the one who had killed her husband. Still, the evil woman did nothing but laugh, her voice a cold, wracked croak.

"Stupe--"

"Expelliarmus!"

Raina's wand was wrenched from her hand, and sent flying across the room. Part of her mind saw it hit a bottle of wine on the opposite windowsill and shatter it. Brief annoyance flickered through her thoughts. She had been saving that for Boxing Day lunch.

"Avada Kedavra." A harsh, exultingly haughty voice echoed from behind one mask, and behind her came a high scream. As she turned, all thought gone, a hunted, cornered animal, another spell knocked her legs from under her and she fell, her ribs crushing the air from her lungs. Her arms did not move to stop her fall.

Her sister was pinned against the wall, held in a full body bind by a massive, brutish Death Eater who held a terrible, notched axe. Bethany cowered against the fireplace, staring down in utter lack of belief at the awful still shape that lay prone at her feet as another black robed figure strode forward. Another toy shattered beneath the haughty-voiced, slender Death Eater's foot as he looked down at Elgin's body.

"Mudblood brat." Eyes glinted excitedly behind the mask. and the wand rose again.

Raina screamed wordlessly, throwing herself across the floor at the man as Beth stepped back, falling into the fire. Behind her mother, the female Death Eater's wand swung- and with it the Christmas Tree. Raina had helped her father buy the tree, a rather magnificent one and a decision she'd only regretted when the time had come to carry it home. Even had the weight been slightly less, the force with which the locomotor curse drove it would still have been sufficient to snap the desperate woman's spine as finally as it did. Her face fell forward into the wrapping paper and party hats as her daughter rolled, screeching, from the fire, her clothes and skin licked with flame. The girl's aunttwisted, fightingagainst the curse holding her immobile, hate and near-madness flickering in her dark eyes, her hair lifeless grey, but she could do nothing, even as the big man whose spell held her pulled the axe from his belt and, still keeping his wand levelled at Raina's sister, raised it high above Bethany as she writhed on the hearthrug.

A pale, cold figure swept into the room, taller than the rest. He stood behind Raina, but even paralysed as she was, she felt his presence in a chill that reached even through the fear and grief. She looked up into her young daughter's agonised eyes- and Macnair swept the axe down.

A cry of pure loss tore itself from the crippled woman's throat, and Voldemort's alien features drew into a fond smile as he strode towards the last one, Macnair's captive. Behind him, he heard Bellatrix kneel beside his target's sister, and whisper the spell she loved so much. As the Cruciatus Curse wrenched its way even through the agony he had already instilled in the broken woman's heart, Lord Voldemort reached out with his right arm, rejoicing in its strength remade, and allowed a thin trickle of the older man's blood to fall to his chin. The last act of his renewal. Now he was whole again. Now his pain was gone. He smiled into the survivor's face.

"And now there is no one left to claim you." His tongue slid over his thin lips. "You are mine... and your mind shall be my plaything, until all this is forgotten and you shall walk abroad with joy in the world once more- an innocent... yet with the seed of great things within you, for one who is abomination and scourge of all that is proper and meet to me shall fall at your hand."

He raised his head and looked upon the tawdry stars and bells of golden foil, and saw past them, seeing the sky and the darkness over the roof. No transience of matter or mortal challenge to his power could impede one such as he. What was ordained would come to pass. "You shall be my assassin. You shall kill Harry Potter. When the time is right."

* * *

By the afternoon of Boxing Day, the snow had fallen thickly on the fields and woods of Ottery St Catchpole. It was not, in the words of the twins, 'deep and crisp and evil', but there was more than enough for the four youngsters- fortified with sliced turkey and bacon- to throw themselves into the making of a snowman. 

"I'm too old for this." Ron groaned. His third attempt at a head for the creature had crumbled and disintegrated rather than be pressed down on to the figure's shoulders. The two former heads' passage down the body had created the accumulation of a macabre spike of compacted snow atop the snowman's neck, and it was the boy's ill-conceived effort to screw the new head down on to this that had brought about its destruction.

"You eat too much." Hermione carved rough outlines of arms into the snowman's side with a stick. "A bit of healthy exercise won't kill you."

"We'll see." Ron muttered. Harry and Ginny were laboriously rolling another snowball around the garden, twisting and turning around the areas of deepest snow, leaving little trails of faded green grass. Every so often, with an annoyed screech, a small gnome would leap up out of the path of the snowball and hop away- occasionally hurried by a curse from whichever of the two happened to be holding Harry's wand.

"I suppose gladiators fighting was a sort of exercise," Harry observed. "Bit dangerous, though."

"Not if you were good at it." Ginny turned the snowball. "And cats hunt mice for exercise."

Harry twitched his nose, rodent-fashion. "Shame they don't hunt ferrets."

"Ferrets," Hermione remarked in a dignified fashion, or, at least, as dignified a fashion as is possible for one who is attempting to attach small black stones to the front of a temporarily decapitated snowman, "Are not actually rodents."

"What, not even Malfoy?" Ron started to break off the ice cone on the snowman's neck.

"That's different. That boy was a rat long before Professor Moody got near him."

"He wasn't a boy, either." Ginny murmured, as she and Harry hoist the snowball up in their arms. Ron blinked- and the snowman creaked and started to list over as he struck its neck slightly too hard.

"Careful!" Harry braced it with a foot while Hermione and Ron hurriedly steadied the creature and packed snow in and around its base.

"The spell left a sort of echo round him," Ginny confirmed, with a mischievous twist to her lips. "That's sort of how I was able to set it off again. I had a look at it. Moody turned him into a ferret all right... but not a male ferret."

"You..." Harry's shoulders shook. Hermione hurriedly grabbed the snowball head and the four of them manoeuvred it on to the creature. "You mean..."

Ginny nodded.

"Indeed. The frightening thing is I think, secretly, he might have quite liked it."

Ron and Harry straightened the head, and Hermione pushed two smaller stones in at roughly the right places to represent eyes. Privately, Harry noted that one was substantially lower than the other, and set below a rather deep and frosty brow, giving their snowman a somewhat machiavellian countenance. Ginny reached up and, with one bare and red finger, drew a lopsided and sinister smile across the creature's face, and Harry burrowed a small socket for the nose, all that remained to complete the basic figure.

"At last," Hermione muttered, throwing her arms out wide. "I have created life... quickly, Igor," she gestured to Ron. "Bring me the carrot and the electrical charges... on this day the name of Hermione Von Frankenstein shall live in history!"

Ron tapped his forehead vaguely, and passed a rather bent and twisted carrot that had been overlooked during yesterday's culinary onslaught.

"It'd melt if you tried putting eckeltricketty through it though, wouldn't it?" Ginny gave her brother a puzzled look.

"Never mind, Ginny," Hermione sighed, pressing the carrot into place on the snowman's face. "There we are." She stood back. "Well, I think it looks quite good."

"With an army of fifty of them, you could take over the world," Ginny agreed.

"Just the world?" Harry tutted. "There's nine planets in the solar system alone, and a whole galaxy out there." he grinned, setting one of Arthur Weasley's old hats on the snowman's head and pulling it into a slightly Napoleonic silhouette, "Just imagine it. The four of us mysteriously disappear. Voldemort continues creeping across the world... then just as he's about to take over everything all the Muggle radar stations start picking up on thousands of space ships entering the solar system." He glanced at Ron. "It's like a big broomstick with an air supply, Ron, so you can fly between different planets. "

"Foolish boy," Ginny hissed, "How dare you imagine that the mighty Lord Voldemort might be intimidated by a mere rabble of armed Muggles..."

"A mere rabble of armed alien Muggles with really, really big guns." Harry held up a finger, correcting her. "And you're forgetting my mighty army of Snow Warriors." He patted the snowman on the shoulder.

"Ssssstupid boy... what power can challenge the might of the Dark Lord, Emperor of Shadowssss... " Ginny drew her coat about herself, her eyes narrowing. "I am the lord of the Earth. Bow down and worship me..."

"I'm the ruler of the universe. No." Harry stuck his tongue out at her.

"How dare you thtick out your tongue at the Lord Voldy? Foolisssssh mortal!" Ginny stooped. "Now fear the dread dark magic of the Dark Lord of the dark!"

She scooped a snowball, pitching it up at Harry. The boy yelled, ducking to the side. The snowball impacted into a large bulge on one side of the snowman's face.

"NEVER!" Harry threw a rather hastily concocted snowball back at Ginny, which shattered on her arm as she raised it as a shield.

"Come, my loyal servant!" Ginny beckoned to Ron. "Strike down my enemy!"

Harry pelted Ron with another snowball as the boy stooped to gather a handful of snow together- but received a mouthful of the soft, powdery white stuff himself from Ginny. Hermione shook her head, trying to retreat around the side of the snowman- but could not resist plucking the remains of Ginny's first snowball from its cheek as she did so. As Ron threw a loose cloud of snow up at Harry, she pitched her own missile high, so that it came down on the top of his head.

"Hey!" Ron protested. "They're shooting back!"

Ginny had ducked down, hurling another snowball at Harry as he wiped the first from his face. Quick as a flash, the Boy-Who-Lived ducked to one side, one arm swinging out ahead of the snowball, his hand cupping round it, and twisting into a spin. Harry's legs slipped round on the snow and he nearly lost his balance, but the snowball was caught, and flung back at his girlfriend.

Ginny spluttered, batting at her nose and mouth as Ron and Hermione hunted each other around the snowman. Harry and Ginny both gathered their snowballs at the same moment, and Harry threw first. Ginny fell into a cat-like crouch, making no effort to evade the projectile, but instead throwing her own snowball in a complicated underarm throw. The two collided in mid-air, exploding in a small shower. A few compacted fragments stung her cheek.

"Well played," Harry called, already casting his eyes about on the lawn for the thickest covering, and thus, the best available armaments. "So the Dark Lady has some skill in battle."

One of Ron's snowballs sailed through the air, striking the wooden wall of the little garden shed in the distance- an impressive throw. The snow atop its roof shook from the impact, slithering and falling in a miniature drift. For a moment, a variety of wires and cables hanging around his shoulders, Arthur's face appeared at the window. Then an electrical flash reflected off the glass from inside, and Mr Weasley hurriedly turned back to his work. Meanwhile, the boy managed to decorate the back of Hermione's coat with two more impacts as she attempted to retreat behind the garden wall. Harry and Ginny duelled on, circling around the lawn. Hermione scooped up a large, soft snowball from behind the wall and flung it back at Ron, realising too late that a pair of struggling arms and legs had emerged. The gnome squeaked unprintably as it arced through the air, and Hermione stared at it in consternation. Ron dived for cover- fairly burying himself in the fallen snow, and the small, alive, but none the less far from guided missile landed in Ginny's hair, sending her own shot wide.

"Argh, get off me, you git..." the girl put her hands up to her head, the gnome clambering upright and pulling her hair angrily. Harry knocked it flying with another snowball, liberally covering Ginny's red hair with white.

"Thank you, so much," she favoured him with a sweet and somewhat lethal looking smile, which faded not a jot as she ducked, gathering a missile of her own with which to return fire.

"Anything for a damsel in distress," Harry retreated, nearly falling over the gnome, which had itself reached the conclusion that discretion was the better part of valour and 'somewhere else' was the better part of the Weasleys' back garden this afternoon.

"So I've heard," her eyes sparkled, throwing several more snowballs after the boy. "Normal boys just buy a girl a drink, or something... you have to go and do something like rescuing them from certain death, don't you?"

"I like to be impressive!" the boy protested, crouching by the side of Arthur's shed and plunging his hands into the deep snowdrift. "I thought we might blow the planet up for our next date, or something?"

"Already he wants to make the Earth move!" Ginny called to Hermione. "No patience, that boy-gah!" A large snowball exploded against her cheek.

"Pay attention, Miss Weasley," Harry chided her, as she tried to clear her eyes of snow. "Fifty points from Slytherin."

"I'm no Slytherin!"

"It's fun knocking points off them, though," Ron, the prefect, advised his sister, and swung his head back to Hermione, whose head had moved in unconscious agreement. "You nodded," he crowed. "I saw you," Ron challenged her. "The girl has a sense of humour!"

"Kissing you, I need one."

Ron's jaw dropped. Hermione cocked an eyebrow at him, coming out from behind the wall, her arms behind her back. "Oh, honestly, Ronald," she shook her head, looking at her friend's sister as she walked slowly towards him. "I swear, that boy takes life far too seriously." She raised her eyebrows, turning her face back towards Ron, whose mouth was twitching with the air of something which had not entirely made up its mind whether to set in amusement or anger. "Well, well," Hermione remarked, as Ron finally settled on a resigned grin. "The boy has a sense of humour."

"One for her side," Harry remarked to Ginny.

"Two." Ginny nodded back to them. Hermione had come to a halt rather close to Ron, and, waiting until the boy took this as an invitation and leant towards her, brought her hands around from behind her back and deposited a respectable amount of snow on his head.

"You're not taking notes, I hope?" Harry gave his girlfriend a sideways glance, slipping one arm around her waist.

"Taking notes, no," Ginny reassured him. "Who do you think gave her the idea in the first place?"

As Harry felt a cold trickle flow down his neck and into the back of his shirt, he decided that defeat had its compensations. He rolled his eyes, blinking to shake away the frosting that had somehow managed to find its way to his eyelashes even behind his spectacles, and grinned.

"Is... it all right now?" Ginny smiled at him, her eyes lifting to his forehead for a second. The boy nodded. The pain he'd felt in the night had been muted, a pale and distant echo of what he'd suffered for the last few years. He hadn't known what to make of it- whether Voldemort was deliberately hiding from him, or whether his success in the battle had somehow itself weakened the Dark Lord's power to turn it against him. His concern about what it might mean had far outweighed the pain itself- but no search of the Pensieve had been able to find anything in his memories. He shook his head, dismissing the memory.

"I'm not going to start worrying every time Voldemort stubs his toe."

Then a rather large and somewhat hard snowball smacked into the side of his head, almost knocking him off his feet. He staggered, swinging Ginny round and almost horizontal in what would have been a decidedly stylish dance move in another time and place, but in this particular locale succeeded in saving her from another snowball. Ron and Hermione floundered through the deepening snow towards them. It had begun to fall again, but they were not stray flakes that zipped along parallel to the ground and slammed into the side of the snowman. Mr Weasley's old trilby slipped from its head and fell into the snow at the snowman's base. More snowballs spun through the air, cutting an impossible curved flight path through the falling snowflakes, arcing around the side of the shed where Harry and Ginny had taken cover, and impacting on their raised arms and coats.

"An attack!" Harry called, scooping up great handfuls of snow and hurling them back towards the house while Ron and Hermione joined Ginny behind the relative shelter of the shed. "Take cover!" the dark-haired boy shouted, peering at the various doors and windows of the house. He could guess the nature of the assault and its origin easily enough... but... three snowballs struck his face one after another, streaming through the air with balletic precision, and he fell over backwards in the snow, glasses completely obscured.

"Hang on!" Ron shouted, and he felt two pairs of hands grasp him, hauling him back through the snow. His feet kicked, trying to get a purchase on the ground, while he spat out enough snow to protest. He heard Hermione shout something about the twins, and then Ron and Ginny had pulled him behind the shed and relieved him of his spectacles. He saw, dimly, that they had snapped across the bridge of the nose. With a faint, exasperated noise, Hermione reached for them.

_"Oculus Reparo_,"

Harry said quickly, having been for once fortunate enough to have his wand on him, and restored the glasses to his face, flashing a smug look in his friend's direction as he did so. The look froze, and he ducked, seconds before a snowball of somewhat impressive size and softness splattered over the wall where he had been seconds before. Two more struck Ginny and Hermione on the back of the head, covering what few parts of them had escaped in the earlier battle in soft, wet snow. Ron snatched up a handful of his own and looked round.

"Where the hell are they?"

"They've enchanted the snowballs," Hermione prodded at one with a finger. Harry peered around the corner of the shed. Fred and George had emerged from the house, both wearing broad grins across their faces that the boy could see quite clearly even across seventy metres of falling snow, and training their wands here and there on the ground. Where they pointed, the snow rose up, clustering, forming levitating balls of snow, which then zoomed off, gathering speed.

"Look out!" he shouted, pulling his own head back a fraction too late. "Pfff!" Harry spat snow- but the worst was to come. Four of the twins' enchanted snowballs arced over the shed roof and fell on its far side. As had happened to the nearer side when Ron had managed to hit it, a great sheet of snow came loose, and cascaded down on the four of them. Sitting, half-buried in the snow, they looked at each other, and very distinctly heard one of the twins laugh. Ron's cheeks reddened.

"There's a spell to animate snowballs in that Wizard Wheeze gift set of theirs," Ginny, scrabbling about in the snow like a lost hobbit, pulled herself mostly free of it.

"I don't suppose you..." Harry struggled to his feet and helped her, "Remember it, do you?"

"Possibly." She grinned at him, and reached for his sleeve. Then she paused, holding back her hand. "May I?" Ginny asked, politely.

Harry ducked his head. "A gentleman never refuses a lady."

"Why thank you, Mr Potter." Ginny stroked her gloved fingers over the back of his hand, and pulled his wand from its hiding place. She narrowed her eyes, and pointed it at the snow.

"Wait a minute." Harry pressed himself against the shed again, and peered round it cautiously. The two red-topped demons in question- each huddled in heavy orange jerseys labelled 'F' and 'G'- had reached the middle of the garden now, and stood flanking the snowman, leaning on its shoulders and chatting to it or each other while they gradually raised a veritable army of floating snowballs around themselves. Harry smiled slowly, a decidedly evil idea coming to him. He beckoned with one arm behind his back, and felt Ginny press herself against him, her neck craning around the corner. All in all, he reflected briefly, a sensation he would like every opportunity to become accustomed to.

"Snow is snow is snow, wouldn't you say, Miss Weasley?" he asked.

"I might, Mr Potter."

"If, say, one had on hand an exceptionally talented young witch with a creative mind, a snow which animates snowballs might, in fact, animate anything made of snow." Harry pondered. "That makes sense, doesn't it?"

"I believe it does, my love."

"Excellent." Harry turned his head. "Did I mention I'm making you joint second-in-command of the DA?" He paused. "Lieutenant-commander?"

"Yes sir?"

"Get them."

Ginny bared her teeth.

"_Animus!_"

"I say, old chaps!" Fred called. "Don't be so dashed unsporting! Here we are..."

"... All these fine fellows ready and waiting," George gestured around at the floating snowballs, as the two twins looked at the garden shed, grinning. "And no one whatsoever..."

"... To play with. Out you come, Ronniekins, or do we have to send people in to get you?" Fred raised his wand slightly, and a phalanx of snowballs moved forward aggressively. An arm tapped him on the shoulder. He glanced round, questioning, towards his twin, saw the snowman leaning forward and grinning at him, and looked back.

"Gred?" His twin asked him, thoughtfully, as he pondered this strange event, and a heavy snow arm patted him on the shoulder reassuringly.

"Yes, Forge?"

"We're in trouble, aren't we?"

"Yes, Forge." Two extremely large armfuls of snow splattered into their faces, and, wands forgotten, they reeled, before strong snow arms pitched them forward into the stuff. Spluttering, they surfaced- as every one of their army of snowballs fell to earth in their general direction. Fred rolled over, grasping for his wand, half-swallowing a mouthful of snow. The snowman twirled one arm like a conductor, and three more snowballs pelted him. He struggled to his knees. George had sat up, his hands held above his head. The snowman patted him on the head gently, knocking him down again. Fred swung his wand up.

So did the snowman. Fred gulped.

"That's my wand..." he heard George splutter. A thought struck him.

"A snowman can't use a wand," the twin realised, and brought his wand to bear again.

"I can, though." Ginny's voice rang out from the shed.

"We surrender," George protested, as several more snowballs picked up and thrown by the snowman punctuated Ginny's remark.

"Sorry, what was that?" he heard Harry call.

"We surrender!" Fred shouted. "This time!" he added.

"Thank you." Ginny walked primly out from behind the shed, followed by Harry and the others. Harry helped the twins to their feet, and stood beside his girlfriend.

"_Who_ are the pranksters supreme?" she asked, her eyebrows arched quizzically, meltwater dripping from them on to her cheeks.

Fred had folded his arms behind his back, and Harry saw his wand-wrist move, just as the elder boy beamed at him.

"You won this time," he smiled at Harry and Ginny. "It's already next time."

"Not now."

"Wh-"

Harry was looking past them, back towards the house.

"Not now."

Ginny and the others followed his gaze. The Burrow was a precipitous, uneven tower of white snow roof and lightly snow-dusted plaster and brick against the dark grey sky, the snow in that whirling over the white carpet of the fields, and the rearing white-and-shadow shapes of the trees. It was a monochrome world, a world blown soft by a haze of snowflakes that danced and blurred before the eye, and, behind the dancing veil, a still place, a frozen landscape. At the top of the garden, just outside the back door, itself encrusted with snow, flanked by the white-edged dark skeletons of two denuded birch trees, a tall, angular shape in black robes stood watching them, like a jagged dark hole in the field of stark white, its hood drawn up like a shroud around its form, hooded, contemptuous eyes watching the six near-adults as they disported like children in the snow, a hooked nose twitching in a disgust that carried no amusement with it.

Severus Snape raised one hand and beckoned sharply to Harry, then turned and strode back into the Burrow once more.

Harry cleared his throat.

"Something's happened."

* * *

**Mademoiselle Phantom:**

Harry, clueless? Well, yes... although the boy's got a bit more about him than he sometimes lets on. :-) Albus' visit was the last part of that chapter I wrote- it seemed to be the right thing for him to do. Merry Christmas to you!


	38. A Council of War

**Chapter Thirty-Eight:** A Council of War

The six of them followed Snape into the house, stamping the snow from their shoes and glancing at one another with looks filled with foreboding. Arthur and Molly both sat at the kitchen table, their faces drawn and thoughtful, talking quietly with Professor Dumbledore. He raised his head as the teenagers entered, and smiled.

"Merry Christmas," the old man greeted them, patting his white beard thoughtfully. They returned the salutation.

"Now that the children have deigned to join us," Snape's voice dripped contempt, "We can perhaps..."

"And a Happy Christmas to you too, Severus," Harry beamed at him, brightly. Snape's jaw clamped shut for a second.

"Harry..." Dumbledore's eyes flickered cautioningly. Ben Granger, standing somewhat awkwardly with his wife Susan on the edges of this gathering of wizards, gave a quiet snort of laughter.

"Certain intelligence has reached me lately," Snape attempted again.

"About time some did," Ron muttered to his sister, and received a quelling look from Hermione.

Snape bristled, levelling a venomous glance at the pair indiscriminately, before affording Dumbledore a silent glance of appeal. The old man raised a hand, his eyes dancing.

"I think, Severus, we must forgive the excesses of youth when we come into their presence at such a time, and unexpectedly." He considered, following the gentle rebuke with a questioning look to Harry. The boy met it unflinching, and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"Sorry, Professor Snape," Harry said, lightly. "It's just taking us a bit of time to calm down." He heard the twins wheeze with mild outrage somewhere behind him, and allowed the amusing image of the two of them like kettles boiling over to sweeten the bitter pill of apologising to his adversary. Harry gained a certain further pleasure at Snape's confused expression. He could all too easily imagine the various sneers, retorts, or glares of disgust that the Potions Master had been happily preparing for some outburst of defiance or resentment on Harry's part.

_Always do the unexpected. Even if your enemy is clever enough to be prepared for it, an erratic adversary is an irritating adversary, and irritated people start making mistakes._

He felt a smug glee permeate him at that, and gathered his emotions, metaphorically sharpening the honest, respectful smile he was targeting Snape with to a point- even his distinctly limited legilmency capable of tasting the confusion and annoyance in Snape's mind- annoyance that the man couldn't actually find anything to legitimately be annoyed about... and turned the feeling off with a brisk flick of some mental switch. Once again, he was delaying matters. A flash of annoyance at Dumbledore for disturbing their Christmas holiday vanished in moments. An annoying little platitudinous saying he remembered slipping from Uncle Vernon's lips in a vain effort to persuade Dudley to do his homework before retreating upstairs to his Playstation crossed Harry's mind.

_Guns before butter._

"What's Voldemort up to?"

Snape recoiled, as if stung, and his lip twisted further.

"I have told you not to--"

"All right," Harry found his own anger rising despite himself, "What's He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Given-A-Barclaycard been up to?" He pulled a chair out abruptly, the legs screeching on the tiled floor, and sat down heavily, taking a few more from his lifetime supply of very deep breaths. Snape's teeth bared.

"As I have informed the Headmaster," he growled, more than a little resentfully, "The Dark Lord has made it known amongst his Death Eaters that they are to be prepared for his vengeance upon the world for the indignities he has recently suffered at your hand." He stressed the last phrase deeply, allowing a faintly accusing sneer to cross his face. "As I believe I warned you earlier, the consequences of your actions are likely to be felt by many."

Hermione's cheeks coloured with annoyance, and she clenched her teeth.

_What does he expect Harry to do? Just sit back and let Voldemort kill him and Ginny?_

She looked at her friend, half-expecting to see the same anger flickering in his eyes- but Harry had leant back in his seat, and his frown was one of thought and deliberation, rather than anger. Hermione's eyes narrowed. She'd seen the dread in his eyes when Snape had beckoned them inside. Harry had expected something else.

_Which begs the question- who's the more reliable guide to what Voldemort's doing? Harry- or Snape?_

"Any idea what he's going to do?" Arthur Weasley folded his arms, glancing at Moody. "At least we might stand a chance of being ready for him."

"I sincerely doubt the Order of the Phoenix is ready to battle the Dark Lord in open warfare, Weasley," the Potions Master snapped. "And in any case, his precise intents and purposes remain, for the moment, occluded. As the time draws nearer, it may be that he will take certain Death Eaters further into his confidence- and if I am one of those individuals, or if they are members of the Dark order with whom I have some communication or influence, then I may be able to procure further information for you."

"We are aware of the limitations you are under, Severus," Dumbledore murmured, resting a hand lightly on Snape's sleeve and pushing gently until the aggrieved spy resumed his seat. The old man looked particularly at Harry for a moment, then back to Snape. "To remain able to stay close to the Dark Lord, you may only help us so far... only discover so much information to us, never move so far that your hand becomes visible against the sky." The Headmaster's eyes cast downward a moment.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. It was true, she realised, with a distinctly unpleasant feeling as she looked at Snape. Not only was the man limited in terms of what he could risk doing, of just how many times he could feign an innocent explanation for prying into the Dark Lord's affairs... but there was another shadow over him. Each secret he gained, every little bit of information, each thing he learned that could help the Order would have to be weighed in the secret depths of the spy's mind. Would them knowing this incriminate him? Would telling them that secret confirm to Voldemort that there was a spy in his midst, and the name of that spy? What would Snape do? Which way would he jump?

She wondered how many times it had happened. How many times Snape had allowed the Dark Lord to continue unchecked- because to pass on information that might save lives today would have revealed him to Voldemort, and might cost the Order victory tomorrow. She wondered, too, with a cold shiver as she looked at the kindly old man who allowed Snape to sit at his side, how many times Dumbledore had himself made that choice. How many times he had, indeed, been given such precious knowledge, held the scales in his hands... and let innocents die so that Snape might remain hidden, a concealed card in the game. She looked up into the Headmaster's face- and met Dumbledore's eyes as he smiled at her in his genial fashion- yet with a glint behind the eyes that seemed to say that he guessed much of what was in her mind.

"I agree with Harry," Remus was saying, Hermione realised, pulling herself back to the realm of the here and now with a jolt. "Ollivander's is the most likely target." He gave Fred and George an apologetic look. "That means an attack on Diagon Alley." Lupin gnawed one fingernail pensively. "It's a good, high-profile target. Close to the Daily Prophet offices too," he added, thoughtfully. "After the way they jumped right behind Harry when You-Know-Who tried to attack him, He's likely to think they need to be cowed."

"Maybe he can get a job as a proof-reader while he's there," Harry murmured. "I've had enough of 'Harpy Porter and his girlfiend Jenny Wesley' to last me a lifetime."

Ginny stifled a chuckle. The boy grinned at her, then drew serious once more.

"I've warned Mr Ollivander about it," he told them, and frowned in irritation. "Not that I thought he actually bothered to listen or anything." He considered. "Other than trying to imply he'd be quite happy to sell a wand to Voldemort if he asked, of course."

"He tries that and he'll be in for it," Moody growled. "That dratted Umbridge woman's got Ministry agents watching every shop in the Alley."

"It's supposedly about making sure no one's hoarding supplies or magical artefacts for some sort of coup against the Ministry," Ginny's father told them, "But I don't think even she could cover it up if Ollivander sold a wand to He Who Must Not Be Named."

"Mr Ollivander is a skilled man with many talents," Dumbledore observed, sitting up straighter. "And his motives are not always easy to fathom... but I do not think that he would willingly seek to assist Lord Voldemort. To form an alliance with someone who wishes to turn the established order so firmly on its head would be most unwise for a businessman like our wandsmith. That is not to say, of course," he added, thoughtfully, "That he would be willing to risk Voldemort's wrath by refusing him, were he to gain access to the premises."

"He did say that no one could take a wand from the shop without his permission," Harry offered. Fred and George looked at each other, with slightly pained expressions on their faces.

"He's right..."

"... About that."

Mrs Weasley hissed faintly, and glared at them.

"It was years ago!" Fred protested. "We only meant it as a joke..."

"Well," Moody scratched his cheek. "One thing, old Ollivander knows those wands and who he's sold them to back to front. If he reckons You-Know-Who wouldn't be able to get past them- and I don't say we trust him, mind, nor that we let our guard down, there's too many that let their guard down and don't regret it for more than a minute, if you take my meaning, then still, if Ollivander reckons those wands of his are enough to keep out He Who Must Not Be Named, he probably knows what he's talking about."

"Tom Riddle."

"Eh?" Moody looked at Hermione, surprised. The girl rubbed her forehead with the fingertips of one hand, and looked back at him, then at Dumbledore.

"What is it, Miss Granger?" Dumbledore asked, gently.

"I don't know Mr Ollivander as well as you, Professor," she said thoughtfully, "But from what Harry's told me, and how he spoke when I did meet him, he sounds as if he works out everything he knows about a wizard... well, backwards, in a way. Starting from the wand."

"You can tell a lot about a wizard from their wand, Hermione," Lupin told her.

"A lot isn't everything, Professor- sorry, Mister..."

"Just Remus, Hermione," the thin man smiled wanly. "Go on."

"Right." Hermione glanced around, a little nervously. It was all very well to take the lead with Harry and Ron- for one thing, she knew very well that they expected it, but rather a different thing to find herself trying to explain something to Dumbledore, of all people. She looked at him. The old man met her eyes again, and for a moment she caught a flash of amusement, and almost stopped, crushed, before she read more into his bearded countenance. Dumbledore's look was sympathetic- and almost nostalgic.

"Go on, Miss Granger," he asked, curiously.

"The wand chooses the wizard," Hermione ruminated, spinning webs of reason in her mind and leaping along them. "So from that, knowing the wand, he knows the wizard... but he only knows the wizard that the wand chose... at the time it happened. The trouble is, Mr Ollivander's so caught up in that way of looking at the world, that he only really sees a wizard as something that has magical power that a wand can channel, and has a hand that can hold the wand in the air. I don't think it's ever actually occurred to him that people change. When he thinks of Voldemort, or looks at Harry, or Ron, or even you, Professor, he sees a wand that he sold to an eleven year old child." She waved her hand. "All right, he realises that we grow up, we learn more magic, more power... but still, when he thinks about power and potential, he's thinking about a wand, not a wizard. So, no... I don't think we can rely on what he says at all. He doesn't believe Tom Riddle could steal one of his wands. On the other hand, I don't think Mr Ollivander has the faintest idea who or what Voldemort is, or what he can do."

There was silence for a moment. Then Harry spoke.

"Makes sense," he looked at Dumbledore. "I don't suppose you put "Will Rule the Forces of Evil" on Little Tommy's first school report, did you, Professor?"

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.

"I do not believe so," he murmured. "I do, however, recollect that his marks in Arithmancy were somewhat higher than your own, Mr Potter," he smiled.

"I can put two and two together," Harry defended himself. "And I happen to like the number five," he added, after a moment."

"The point," Hermione stressed it slightly, "Is that we can't be certain of Voldemort's potential, so we can't know if Ollivander's is safe or not."

"I doubt it." Ginny spoke for the first time. She had sat beside Harry, her legs pulled up under her on the chair, listening in silence, pensive. "It's not just about strength, is it?" she looked at the headmaster for confirmation. "He seems to use magic in a totally different way to anyone else." She sucked in her lips for a second. "To be honest, I get the feeling he's been experimenting on the Unforgivable Curses- maybe trying to create that same sort of magic again." She shuddered. "I can't really explain it... but..." she glanced around the room. "It feels twisted... almost deformed. In a way I think that's why he's so powerful, more than just because he's strong. His magic breaks the rules. How can you block something you don't understand?"

* * *

_It was not cold, no. Not warm, certainly, and there was a chill in the air, but what cold is, is cold as cold is felt by a warm body, and I was not of that element after he had left me. I was comfortable, sunk down into the deep dark place. _

_I suppose I remembered what he'd told me, that red-headed spectre at the gate, but all those names, they weren't anything important to me then, I hope you can understand that? You see, they were all from other dreams. Harry Potter, Professor Dumbledore, even that name that can't be mentioned, they were narrative. Sleeping or waking, dream or reality, it didn't make any difference. They were on another level. I was the still self, sitting curled up way below it all, and until I stepped into it again there wasn't any urgency or anything like that._

_Nice. If you grab two words in the right place you can turn an argument round and make it bite itself to death. _

_I liked him, though. I suppose it's a bit selfish- actually, yeah, it is, I know, but so what? If you can't be selfish inside your own mind, then where can you be? I like people who save my life, and I didn't want to fall into the garden of colours. Thus there lay the sense that was once and future me, curled, enraptured, suspended in one perfect moment beneath a flowering shrub in the fair garden of walks, and lo, yeah, I know, get to the point. I don't say I couldn't remember things if I wanted to. I don't know? Can you remember when you're asleep? The thing is, I couldn't want to. It's like willing something's a sort of movement. I just was. Nothing more was I but the simple and pure awareness of the continuing self, and now I lay upon a dark seashore of clammy rocks, and gazed out across a black sea at the piercing eye of the sunset on the horizon, a great burning ball of red wreathed in orange clouds._

_Very Gryffindor, I know. Typical. Well, he did sort of save my life in the gardens, didn't he?_

* * *

"That's a fair summing-up of defence in general from young Virginia," Mad-Eye Moody observed sourly. "I don't deny that Mr Potter may be right, and we may be seeing Death Eaters in Diagon Alley before January's well underway, but if we put all our best people on that one, and You-Know-Who leaps another way, then we'll end up with egg on our faces and no mistake. The trick of it is, we haven't the faintest idea which way he's going to jump." 

Hermione's lips pursed, and she frowned down at the coarse, swirling grain of the tabletop. Eventually it was Bill Weasley who spoke.

"Well, just how many people have we got anyway, Professor Dumbledore?" The tall young man tossed his head and sat back, arms folded. "We don't really know how much we can count on the Aurors with that revolting woman creeping all over the place as Acting Minister, do we?"

"The Aurors had damn well best do their duty if it comes to it, Whitehall or no blasted Whitehall," Moody grated, ignoring a look from Molly.

"And most of them will, Alastor," Dumbledore reassured him, turning to smile at the war torn old survivor. "Kingsley-"

"Good man, Kingsley. Good head on his shoulders and keeps his eyes open."

"Quite." The Headmaster nodded. "Kingsley and Miss Tonks are doing their best to discover what they can of any genuine bad blood within the Auror body, as you might say, and to further other lines of communication. If things do come to a head with the Ministry at a critical time... then I cannot say that I am certain the Aurors will be with us... but I _can_ say that I am not certain that they will be with the Ministry either."

Ron made a strangled noise in his throat, and, as Hermione looked round, startled and a little concerned, he banged one fist down on the table, face red with laughter.

"Mr Weasley?" One of Dumbledore's great eyebrows raised in amusement.

"I don't... I don't believe it..." the boy shook his head with laughter. "Sorry, Professor... it's just that last year there was all that fuss about- well, about Dumbledore's Army- and now you've not just got Harry going all steam ahead on that- but you're going to nick Dumbridge's own army right out from under her snotty nose as well?" He groaned. "It's classic, that's what it is..."

The Headmaster's eyes glittered.

"The irony had occurred to me as well, Mr Weasley," he chuckled. "However, unfortunately I am afraid neither Mr Potter's formidable Defence Association, nor the Aurors really qualify as an army. I fear any hope of defeating Voldemort in open war is indeed a vain one. We must look for other ways."

"So I should hope," Molly told him. "I've kept my mouth shut about most of the danger Harry and the others have put themselves into over the years-" Ron, on the other side of the table, nearly choked again, before subsiding instantly at a quelling look from his mother, "But if it comes to a war..." she became aware of Harry's eyes on her, "I'm not talking about you, Harry- or even Ron and Ginny, if it comes to that," she added, in strained tones. "Those two- and young Hermione too- would probably go after you no matter what I or anyone else said... and..." she paused for a moment, and grit her teeth. "And although it goes against all sense to say it, I'm downright proud of all of you for that and shame on any of you for doubting it- but you four aren't the only children in Hogwarts, you know that." She directed a penetrating look, not at Dumbledore, but at Harry. "You do remember that, don't you, Harry?"

"The decision is scarcely his to take!" No one needed to look for the source of the interruption. Snape's voice rasped sinuously, like a blade being drawn from a scabbard. "We are all aware that Hogwarts is another quite likely target for the Dark Lord's revenge, but the protective wards now in place will keep it secure, provided proper precautions are taken. If Mr Potter wishes to idle away his days in fantasy of heroic last stands defending the castle, then let him."

"Oh, for gods' sake." Remus grimaced. "Three words, Snape. Change. The. Record. Have you actually been _listening_ for the last sixteen years?" He moved to stand behind Harry and his friends. "You think Hogwarts' wards are going to stand up to You-Know-Who? Seriously?" He stared at the Potions' Master for a long time, and then shook his head. "Maybe you do. It's impossible for anyone to break the wards," he observed, in a sarcastic tone. "In pretty much the same way it was impossible for Harry to survive the Killing Curse. Pretty much the same way it was impossible for him and Ginny here to come out of a firefight with He Who Must Not Be Named and pinch his wand to boot? Frankly, Severus, if 'Mr Potter' tells me it's time for a last stand, I'll be drawing my wand and getting ready for it."

Harry stared at him, and swallowed. He looked sharply away- and caught sight of Ron's head, nodding slightly, unconsciously. Beside him, Ginny's hand slipped under the table and clasped his own, her eyes flicking to meet his. The boy grit his teeth.

Snape's eyes slid slowly around the room, before finally taking in Harry's face, his eyebrows arching in some secret, bitter amusement. Harry lifted his head, glaring back at the Professor. He didn't want power. He didn't want glory... but he'd taken that decision months ago, he realised. In Grimmauld Place, the day after he'd left Privet Drive. The Prophecy had Marked him, as surely as Voldemort had. He was the Dark Wizard's adversary now- not Dumbledore- him. Harry lowered his eyes to the tabletop for a long moment.

_If only that old bat Trelawney had kept her mouth shut!_

The Boy Who Lived looked up again.

"I'm not going to forget it, Molly," he told her. "That's -really- not what the Defence Association's about." He bit his lip. "But he's coming. We all know it." Harry looked round the room- glaring especially hard at Snape. "All right, maybe we don't know where he'll attack, or who he'll attack... but it's going to happen. Sooner or later- no matter what I, or Professor Dumbledore, or anyone does, somewhere, one of my classmates is going to find himself with his back to the wall and a Death Eater standing over him. When that happens..." Harry closed his eyes, and then directed a penetrating look at the Headmaster. "Remember Cedric Diggory," he quoted the Professor's own valediction. "I want him or her to at least have a fighting chance."

For a long moment, Dumbledore held his gaze, his eyes solemn. Then the old man nodded.

"The question is, what else can we do?" Bill cleared his throat. "Even if we can get the Aurors on our side, if the Ministry's going to stick then I can't see any of the other ministries around the world sending any help, can you?" he asked his father.

Arthur shook his head.

"Bill's right, I'm afraid."

"I'm thinking it's best if we keep what Aurors we can count on round Diagon Alley for now," Moody broke in, leaning forward, his mismatched eyes glinting with the anticipation of battle. "The way I see it, after young Potter's little bit of grandstanding, when He Who Must Not Be Named gets his backside in gear, he's going to be going for a bit of a spectacle- the bigger the better. Odds are he won't make any sort of play for Hogsmeade until school starts up again- not that I don't say we ought to have a fair bit of a guard out there too, you never know..."

Harry sat back in his seat, massaging his forehead with one hand. Ginny shot him a questioning look, aimed particularly at his scar. Unspeaking, as the debate went on, the boy, one hand cupped over half his face, gently squeezed her hand with the other, and shook his head, with a rueful half-grin.

"Just the waiting," he half-mouthed, half-whispered to her.

Ginny nodded. Still, she tilted her head slightly, and half-lifted her eyebrows. It wasn't just the waiting. She remembered the sensation in the air, the night that Draco had attacked them at Hogwarts. Perhaps it was simply human intuition. Perhaps something more, some child of their shared connection to Voldemort- but they both felt it- and, for once, the shared experience was no comfort. The Dark Lord was planning something.

Dumbledore's voice cut in on her thoughts. Once again, the conversation had turned to the protective wards which surrounded Hogwarts.

"However, as you and I both know, Harry," he added, pausing as the boy started, his attention returning to the conversation with a jolt, "There are many loopholes, weaknesses in the wards. Some of them have been traced- but some are so integral to the founding of the wards themselves that they cannot be closed, while others remain hidden. It is, I fear, in the nature of old spells to compound folly even as they mount in potency."

Harry rubbed at his lips with a thumb. "What about Milner?" he wondered. "That Core he had could detect Hogwarts' magical field- do you think he'd be able to do anything?"

Dumbledore nodded.

"Professor Milner has undertaken some study of the wards," he confirmed. "His assessment- if you will permit me to paraphrase, in the interests of clarity and brevity- and occasionally decency- alike," his eyes twinkled slightly, "Is that the wards are sound- but unpredictable. In other words, they may be trusted, in normal circumstances... but in the matter of defence, we would be unwise to place all our eggs in one basket." The old man stroked his beard. "I think you will find, Harry, that you and your Defence Association represent an additional basket."

"He'd better hard-boil his troops, then," Fred said quietly, to no-one in particular. Ben Granger sniggered, and received a quietening elbow in the stomach from his wife. Dumbledore idly examined the salt-cellar on the table, and cleared his throat.

"Might I make a suggestion, Harry?" he enquired, sitting back again and straightening his beard. Harry nodded, and the old wizard ducked his head, as if in gracious acknowledgement of the permission- and although fond amusement glittered somewhere in his eyes, it was mingled with sincere respect. "Perhaps you may think my suggestion to be based on a certain... foolish pride? Although my choices of Dark Arts teacher have invariably proved eventful- in addition to generally being instructive above and beyond the demands of the curriculum, it is rare and something of a regret to me that one of my more... inspired appointments, as I thought, never actually had the opportunity to teach." Mad-Eye paused, his magical eye sidling round to regard the Headmaster suspiciously through the side of his head. Dumbledore continued- and although his gaze did not falter from Harry, watching, the boy felt sure the old man was fully aware of Moody's scrutiny.

"There are few Aurors with more genuine combat experience than Alastor- and fewer of those in condition sane enough to have learned by it." A faint- and very hastily suppressed intake of breath from the general vicinity of Ron suggested that his opinion of Mad-Eye Moody's sanity was not, perhaps, the highest. Moody's magical eye rolled round in its socket, to give the boy a rather hawkish stare across Moody's incomplete nose, while his head and normal eye turned to give Dumbledore the benefit of his full attention. Ron swallowed, and looked sharply away- only to meet his mother's accusatory stare to his left. Evasively, the boy jerked his own head round to the right, trying to slink under Mad-Eye's gaze- and met Hermione's own reproving glance. Ron's shoulders slumped.

"Once you and your compatriots have returned to the sobering atmosphere of school," Dumbledore observed, with a faint smile on his lips, "Alastor and other members of the Order will be frequent visitors. I fear, if December's attack has taught us one thing, it is that it is no longer possible to keep Hogwarts and the Order rigidly separate. Harry, I would advise that- if you are willing to help, Alastor, that you ask Moody to lend his eye- and I think you know what I mean, Fred and George Weasley- and hand to assist your training work every so often. You have a natural talent for teaching," - Harry stared at Dumbledore at this, and both Hermione and- surprisingly- Ron, gave slight nods of agreement, "And considerable experience in fighting Voldemort. However, it is a mistake to ever try to survive entirely alone, is it not?"

Harry nodded.

"You're right." He looked at Moody, and hesitated. "I... er.."

"Seems to me Dumbledore's pretty much asked it for you, Potter," the big man gave a savage grin. "And he's right, makes sense. Besides, I owe him a term or two's teachin'."

Harry let out a long breath. "I wanted to ask you last Autumn," he confessed, "But I thought you'd be too busy."

"Me, busy?" Moody laughed shortly. "Don't be daft, lad. Doin' what? Setting up half a dozen Dark Detectors only for some young idiots to come along and take half of 'em down for blocking the thoroughfare? I like what you're doing- I don't say I'd do everything the way you've been doing it, mind- but it's your class, not mine." He gave the boy an odd look, as if waiting for something. Harry's eyes flicked to Dumbledore, and then back, and he stood up, holding out a hand.

"Then I'll take any help I can get, Alastor." He stressed the first name slightly, as Moody took his hand and shook it. The war torn old Auror met his eyes, and gave a wolfish sort of a grin.

"Right you are, Captain." With a chuckle, Moody let go the hand and stepped back.

"Then, for the moment," Dumbledore concluded, slowly getting to his feet, leaning on Bill's arm as he stood up, "It seems we can do little besides watch and wait." He looked at Moody. "Alastor, would you come back to headquarters with me for the moment? You have several contacts amongst the Aurors- and I think it might be wise to hide the depth of Kingsley and young Nymphadora's involvement with us from Delores for the time being."

"Right," Moody got to his feet. "I've been idle long enough, anyway." He turned to Ron's father. "Sorry to cut the break short, Arthur... and thank you, Molly. I've not enjoyed a good Christmas lunch in such good company for many a year."

As the party got back to their feet, Snape peered at Harry, his eyes almost coal-black points, glittering malevolently. Against his sallow, almost dead-white skin, for a moment he reminded Harry irresistibly of the snow man. Then he moved, a creature of ice and sharp corners. Jack Frost.

"Potter." Snape strode towards the back door, ignoring Dumbledore's questioning glance. "I'd like a word with you." Harry started after him, Ron a step behind. Snape froze. "Alone." He swept out, a cold draught blowing snow into the room in his wake. The Boy Who Lived scowled, but followed the Potions Master to the door. Even now, that peculiar sensation he'd felt from Voldemort haunted him, and his intuition that Snape had not told him the whole truth. When Ginny in turn moved to follow him, he stopped her with a soft word, and walked out into the snow.

Severus Snape stood muffled beside the snowman, regarding it silently as Harry approached.

"All right, Professor," Harry resisted the temptation to sneer the last word. "What's this about?"

The teacher and spy turned his head, looking down at the boy from under creased dark brows.

"Milner." Snape turned back to contemplating the snowman. Already the driving snow sparkled white in his dead black hair, and clung in wide deposits to his robes. "You consider him... an ally?"

"He's helped us," Harry said, his tone souring. "He certainly doesn't like Death Eaters." He left the obvious addendum to Snape's imagination, letting a bleak scowl complete the remark. Professor Snape greeted Harry's challenge with cold indifference, only raising his eyebrows a trifle, and tilting his head a little more.

The Gryffindor rounded on him.

"Perhaps if you actually came out and told me why you obviously don't trust him, instead of just savouring the chance to stand their sneering at me and thinking how much better you are because you think you know something I don't?" Harry's temper flashed for a moment, and he saw the cruel light flicker in Snape's eyes in response. Ruthlessly, his mind clamped down on the feelings, his emotions flooding with blank static. Snape turned again, took a pace closer to him- and seized his wrist in a vice-like grip of his black glove.

"Listen to me, Potter." Snape brought his face close to the boy's own, his features distorted with loathing. "Do not trust him. You are right... Aloysius Milner is no Death Eater, and he hates the Dark Lord... but do not imagine that alone tells you anything- _anything_- of use about him."

"I know that--" Harry broke off. He had no desire to share Milner's grief- his guilt- with this man... but the Potions Master's face twisted in a sardonic effort at a smile.

"Ah yes, how he blames himself for poor Florence Lovegood's death," Snape almost lilted the words. "The poor, broken man... well, Potter, I warn you of this much, and that is that Florence Lovegood deserved every ounce of the agony she suffered in the spell of her own making, and that if your harmless eccentric teacher of the Dark Arts could have said anything of the power to turn her aside from a course she had decided upon, he would have been a stronger-willed man than any I have met... or served."

"What do you..." Harry's feet shifted in the snow, trying to pull his wrist away. Snape scowled closer, his voice dropping. Slowly, his free hand slid back the sleeve of his robes.

"I mean that I knew Florence Lovegood." The arm was bare beneath the robe, and on the livid skin, a black mark like a hideous burn endured. A skull, and from its mouth there issued a snake. Snape spoke with a deadly softness. "We had something in common."

* * *

_Well, in the immortal words of Samwise, son of Hamfast, I'm back. Having received something of a sucker-punch from the world, I wasn't really in any psychological condition to write for a while. My sincere apologies to all those who were following the story- it **is** still my intention to finish it, and eventually the sequel too. I don't yet have anything really approaching a formal schedule for updates again- they won't be as frequent as they were last year, but hopefully more often than a year apart!_

_The odds are that the pace of updates will pick up again once I get back into the rhythm of the story. This chapter was both a really bad one to have to restart with, since the whole resolution of the cliffhanger's a deliberate anti-climax, and an awkward one to write since it's just talking heads, for the most part. Still, t'won't be long before we get some more action._


	39. Red Sky at Dawn

**Chapter Thirty-Nine:** Red Sky at Dawn

**Monday, 30th December, 1996.10:58 am, GMT.**

**St. Margaret's' Common, Little Whingeing**

For four days, the calm had held.

Dudley Dursley crushed a can of lager in his hand and tossed it over the fence into the back garden of No. 23, Wisteria Walk.

"Man, Christmas sucks."

Piers Polkiss and Matt Evenlode nodded, fairly automatically, and followed 'Big D' over the common towards the old kids' playground, pausing only to spit at old Mrs Figg as she wandered past, peering round herself in a suspicious sort of manner, as if expecting trouble. For the fun of it, Matt took a sudden step towards her, hoping to see her flinch. Mrs Figg stopped, and folded her arms in front of her.

"What're you lookin' at, you old cow?" Evenlode growled.

The old woman stirred not a muscle. On the other side of the park, a scruffy-looking old down-and-out looked up from trying to steal somebody's locked bicycle. Matt- a solid, wide-chinned youth built like a smaller, and less upmarket version of Dudley- glared at her, infuriated by the contempt in Mrs Figg's eyes.

"Leave it out, Matt," Piers grabbed his arm, pulling him out of the way. "The old witch ain't worth it, is she, Big D?" Dudley gave a peculiar sort of jump, and grunted.

"Oh, shut it, both of you," he stomped over to the playground, and sat down hard on the swings. The chains creaked ominously overhead.

"What've you gone and done now, Polkisser?" Sammy Bushell sneered, moving out from behind the park-keeper's hut as Mrs Figg, with a last, cold look at the group, moved on. "You should know little Duddykins don't like witches." He wiggled his fingers in Dudley's face. "Scared of 'em, ain't you, Dudders?"

"Leave it out, Bushell, unless you want me to smack you one?" Dudley roared, getting to his feet. The seat of the swing, abused beyond tolerance, clung humiliatingly to his engorged behind by way of a sort of accidental revenge.

"I wouldn't, Duddykins." Sammy bared his teeth. "A lot of folks wouldn't be happy, if you went one over on me. My boss'd be really hacked off over it. Besides, even if he didn't have you smeared out, who'd do be reckoning to get the stuff from afterwards? Not from me, at least." He sneered at Dudley.

The larger youth's fists clenched for a moment, and his jaw worked soundlessly- but then, screwing his face up disgustedly, Dudley backed down.

"All right, just- leave it out, will you? I've had enough with mum giving me grief all Christmas. I mean, come on! What's the point of a good set of speakers if you don't turn them up nice and loud?" His friends nodded their agreement. "Something crawled up her and died," Dudley spat. "And Christmas dinner tasted like a load of it this year, and all. Dad reckoned the bread sauce tasted like bird muck." He fumed. "Not as if there was anything on telly they couldn't hear, anyway." Piers was tugging on his shoulder, trying to attract his attention to something. Warming to his theme, Dudley shook him off, angrily. "Only Mum and Dad just wanted the _News_ on all the time," he snorted. "The News! Like anything ever happens in this dump!" In front of him, both Matt and Sammy were watching something over his shoulder. "But no- if I go down to just ask for something to eat- between levels, you know- it's either Dad yelling because I've interrupted the soddin' economy bit, or Mum shouting cos' she wants to hear about all this terrorism business." He laughed, slowly becoming aware- and annoyed- that none of the three were paying much attention. "Be a good thing if someone did blow this stinking place up, if you ask me-- what the hell is it you lot are gawpin' at?"

Dudley turned.

"Holy... will you look at that?" he grinned, elbowing Piers in the ribs.

It wasn't just that the woman was pretty- in a way, after all, she wasn't. She was older than Dudley usually liked them- maybe a lot older- and her face was a bit thin- funny looking, like she'd been ill and never quite got better from it, as he described it later to both the police and to the others who asked. Her hair, though, was dark, and lustrous, with a sheen to it that he'd never seen before. It flowed down, long, over her shoulders, gathered into the pushed-back hood of her long black coat. Dudley's eyes ranged over the figure, smirking to himself.

_One day I'll get a girl as classy as that._

She stopped, standing with one leg slightly extended, bare and pale from at least the knee down, where it emerged from the front of the coat, and turned. Piers and Matt, both flushing slightly, looked away quickly from that frank expression. The woman's mouth was curved into what Dudley later claimed had been an inviting smile. Even then, though, before the night had even begun, some part of him _had_ seen the ugly disgust in her lidded eyes, revulsion and contempt beneath the dark eye shadow, and had seen the curl of snide amusement in her smiling mouth as she looked at him. Still, he- and Sammy beside him, responded to her look with a sly grin apiece, and an open leer. That, Dudley had known then, was the point when she would have sworn at them, turned about, and walked off. That was what he had expected to happen. He had not expected- as happened- for her to lift an arm, the coat sliding back over her bare forearm, as pale as the leg, and to beckon him.

Dudley moved forward. Bushell started forward with him, but stopped, rigid, rooted as firmly as a tree, as her luminous eyes fixed on him for a half-second, then flicked back to Dudley. Again, she beckoned.

Desperately, Dudley tried to remember all the things TV and his Dad had told him about girls. Trouble was, the TV always assumed that you at least knew the girl's name- or that you were trapped in a burning building or something with the girl, so it didn't matter, and most of what his Dad had told him was that he'd get a girl long before that brat Potter ever would. He knew that anyway.

"What'd'ya..." he stopped. "Hi... you..."

"Muggle." The word cut across the air quietly, the woman's high, almost sing-song gleeful voice purring it out at him with deadly venom and accuracy. Dudley paled. Slow on the uptake he might be- but that was a word he'd heard before. The black-clad woman stepped closer, closing the distance between them, one thin hand stroking the side of his face, and cupping his chin in her hand. "Tell Harry Potter that this is just the start. Just the start. Before it ends, he will wish that he had died at the time of His Lord's choosing." She let her hand drop, and turned, drawing the hood up over her face, and striding away.

Dudley's face blanched, his blood sounding thunderously loud in his veins. With a start, he swung round- almost colliding with the rest of his gang, their own eyes wide in shock, staring at Dudley.

"Why don't you go after her, Duds?"

"What was she on, anyhow?"

"What'd she say, Big D?"

"Nothing!" Dudley shouted- too loud- pushing past them. "She didn't say nothing!" He looked back, the way the woman had gone- but there was no one. Dudley shook his head from side to side, violently. "She didn't say nothing."

* * *

**3:35pm, GMT**

**12, Grimmauld Place, London.**

"To preserve the vitality of a living subject during transfiguration, it is necessary to ensure a smooth continuity of functional internal organs. Since few wizards or witches have the mental capacity necessary to consciously order such change in the small time-frame available, Transfigurers since Ernst Korsgaard (1452-1519), have advocated the use of a locus. A locus is..." A pause. "A locus is... Hermione, what's a locus?"

On the other side of the girls' bedroom, Hermione closed her book with a snap. She had been lying face down across the bed, textbook open on the floor, reading intently, while, at the other end of the bed, Ron, ordered into silence until he'd finished his own Dark Arts essay, attempted to write whilst avoiding Hermione's idly waving feet. The bushy-haired girl rolled on to one side, propping herself up on one elbow. They'd returned to Grimmauld Place three days ago- the rumours voiced by Snape only adding to Mr Weasley's conviction that it was unsafe to remain at the Burrow for longer than needful. Since then, with little else to do and altogether too much to think about, the four of them had eventually reached a state of unease so great that even Harry and Ron had gratefully agreed to her suggestion that they turn their minds towards homework. At least, as Ron admitted, their homework wasn't planning to take over the world.

Still, Hermione dearly wished that her friends would grow to learn the distinction between 'doing their homework' and 'asking Hermione how to do their homework'. For an intelligent young wizard with a startlingly quick mind, the concept seemed peculiarly elusive to Harry James Potter, on occasion.

_This, Hermione Jane Granger, is because the boy is bone idle._

"Page 67, section 3." She pointed insistently at one of the heavier looking books in the pile by her desk- or, at least, what had been her desk before Harry had usurped it with a veritable armed force of incomplete homework tasks. Harry lifted his eyebrows, giving her a pleading look. Hermione's eyes narrowed, and, after a moment, with a resigned sigh, the boy dug out the relevant volume and began to search.

"Isn't it 'Transfigurationists', anyway?" Ron looked up, chewing his quill. "Ow!" he nursed his elbow, pained, as a particularly vigorous gesticulation from Hermione's lower leg caught it. "You did that on purpose!"

"Nonsense, Ron." Hermione slid back on to her stomach, and opened the book again. "Although I dare say if people would settle to doing their own work, instead of pestering me the whole time, I probably wouldn't fidget so much."

"Oh, come on, 'Mi," the redhead protested. "If you're going to carry on like a walking dictionary all the time- we know you know this stuff better than we do, so what do you expect? It's not like we're not trying to learn."

"The point, Ron, is that you're just as capable as me of knowing all of it- but you _don't_ bother! You don't listen properly, because you think you know you'll always be able to have the lesson later, from me, when you happen to be in the mood for it. And then you never are in the mood for it, and so it never gets done!"

On the other bed, a Ginny-sized hump under the duvet stretched, and a wand, tip glowing brightly, emerged, followed by a couple of scrolls of notes, and eventually the arms and head of the youngest Weasley. She tipped a wry glance at Harry.

"Here we go again..."

Meanwhile, Ron, fending off another of Hermione's lazily kicking feet, grabbed her ankle, and glared down the bed at her. "I _am_ in the mood," he protested, in a wronged tone.

Harry bit his lip. Ginny arched her eyebrows at him, her face very solemn. She gave her boyfriend a slow wink.

"Oh, so am I," she murmured huskily to Harry. He threw a cushion at her. "Argh, stop it!" Ginny laughed, batting it away with one hand. "You'll make me... there, see, I've lost my place in my notes." she shook her head, soulfully. "I don't know... anyone would think someone wanted me to fail my OWLs. First, I have to miss the last few days of term, just because you and dear Draco wanted to go and play with Tommy in the forest, and now this- endless efforts to thwart my revision." She stuck out her tongue.

"I wouldn't mind," Harry retorted, "If you weren't revising from _my_ notes."

"Well, you were a fifth year last year--"

"And you're one this year. So your notes ought to be fresher. Cleaner, too," he added, eyeing the many old ink stains that liberally decorated his own manuscripts.

"Ah, but Harry," Ginny shrugged off the duvet entirely, sitting cross-legged on the pillow, "Let us not forget that your notes are inspired by the wisdom of the Dark Lord as well. Poor Tommy. I think if I had nothing better to do than sit inside your head trying to make sense of your essays I'd probably go mad and try to conquer the world as well."

"What does she mean, _go _mad?" Harry turned to the dresser, and asked his reflection. "Anyway, you heard what Dumbledore said about the Arithmancy. I'd probably have got higher marks if I'd asked the Bendy Lord of the Dark for help." He chuckled. "Can't you just imagine his face, though?" He turned from the mirror, standing on tiptoe and looking down his nose at Ginny.

"Sssss... Potter... ssss. I sssssssshall rule the world. Sssss."

"Accio spectacles," Ginny plucked Harry's glasses out of the air as they sailed towards her, and settled them on her nose, and looked up at 'Voldemort'. "Please, Sir, Can You Help Me With My Homework First?"

"Accio..." Harry levelled his hand at his spectacles, beginning the spell in habit, and then sighed, finding his sleeve empty.

_Roll on New Year's Day._

He nodded meaningfully towards both wand and spectacles. Ginny fluttered her eyelashes at him, and tucked Harry's wand behind her ear- which at least made the spectacles fit a little better, and turned back to the notes. She paused, wrinkling her nose, and pushed her hair back from her face. "Oh, pity." The girl raised an eyebrow at him, returning the spectacles, but keeping the wand. "I'd wondered if your notes would all make perfect sense if I read them wearing your glasses."

Harry lifted his brows. Ginny stared him out.

"Well, it makes sense inside _my_ head, anyway."

"That's what worries me, Gin. Any danger I could have my wand back this side of NEWTs? Or should I just reach behind your ear whenever I want it?"

"No. Besides, you shouldn't keep it behind your own ear, Harry." She raised a finger scoldingly. "Remember what Mad-Eye Moody said..."

Harry gave her a serious look. "Funnily enough," he observed, airily, wandering over towards her, "I don't generally keep anyone's buttocks around my ears to be blown off." He sat on the bed. "Although, if that's the only way to get my wand back from you..." the boy grinned, reaching over her head and flicking the wand free, and up over the air into his other hand, embracing Ginny and giving her a light kiss on the lips at the same time, "Then it is a sacrifice that I am prepared to make."

"Oh, I somehow thought it might be, Mr Potter." Ginny smirked at him, leaning up towards Harry. He gave her a cheeky grin and slipped sideways, picking up a length of the manuscript and looking over his old notes in puzzlement.

"You know, I may just possibly have written these in Parseltongue," Harry mused, glancing between Ginny and his handwriting. "That would explain a lot. What's wrong with your notes, anyway?"

Ginny made a small sound of exasperation. "What's wrong with _your_ notes, Harry?" She nodded to the essay he'd been reconstructing from Hermione's textbooks.

"Well, I..." Harry nodded to the other bed, where Ron and Hermione were engaged in a small-scale shouting match over the relative importance of Quidditch practice and returning library books on time, whilst Ron idly tickled Hermione's bare feet. "I sit next to Ron," he observed, in a deliberately loud tone.

"Hoi!"

"Well, then," Ginny nodded, and gave Harry a long-suffering look of such lip-trembling intensity that it would have reduced the sternest onlooker to abject hilarity, before continuing, in tones of deep pathos, her hand slipping comfortably into his own, "I sit next to Luna."

There was an uncomfortable silence. Harry sat up, swinging his legs back down to the floor, and distractedly running his fingers back through his unruly hair. He kept his hold on her hand, and gave it a faint, almost nervous squeeze. Across the room, Ron and Hermione's argument petered slowly out.

"Well done, Ginny," her brother sighed, and nodded to Harry. "This is why she was better off when she just squeaked at you and ran off, mate."

Ginny winced.

"Sorry, Harry," she sighed.

"Now you're doing it," Harry murmured, giving her a sad smile. "It's all right, Gin. We..." he jabbed his wand at the book on the dressing table, and it slammed shut with an air of finality. "We do need to talk about it."

"We don't even know if there's anything to talk about, yet," Ron muttered. "I'd take Milner's word against Snape, any day. Besides, Luna-"

"We never met her mother," Hermione retorted, sitting up in her turn, and drawing her legs under her. "And it's not always like Draco and his father- look at Goyle, for instance."

"Have I got to?" Ron pulled a face. "I ate this morning."

"Do grow up, Ron," Hermione snapped, impatiently. "I mean- just because Luna's mother was a Death Eater, it doesn't necessarily mean that we can't trust Luna."

"_Might_ have been a Death Eater," Ron argued. Hermione drew in a breath, and looked round at the three of them.

"I know nobody in this room can stand the man, but- let's be honest- when has Snape actually ever lied to us?"

Harry rose to his feet, crossing to the window and pushing aside the grey net curtain with a heavy sigh. It was a dismal day outside. The rare seasonal snowfall of the previous week had turned to slush, grey and miserable and stained stark brown and black with the incidental soiling of passing feet and car tyres. Above, the sky was a dark and sullen grey, thickly overcast so that barely a hint of the sun- beyond a slight pinkish tinge to the cloud, already low on the western horizon- could be seen.

The trouble was, that there was no way to know. He bit his lip, watching two starlings quarrelling in the gutter of 5 Grimmauld Place, opposite.

Ron folded his arms.

"Look- we ought to at least ask her. I don't believe Snape. Don't you think Dumbledore would have _said_ something, if she was working for You-Know-Who? I know he believes in letting people work stuff out for themselves- but now we're in the Order- and don't try and tell me he might not know about it, Hermione- he's Dumbledore. Besides, you know how Snape feels about Harry. If he was trying to warn us, then I don't believe he'd be willing to do that, and not willing to tell Dumbledore first."

"How, exactly, do you propose to ask her, Ron?" Hermione's scathing response brought the boy's hackles up, defensively, and he stood up sharply. "Hello, Luna, hope you had a nice holiday- by the way, you remember the mother you loved, who died in front of you? I don't suppose there's any chance she was a psychotic mass murderer, is there? Only we've mislaid one somewhere." Hermione shook her head emphatically. "Honestly, Ron..."

"Actually, I reckon that'd work a damn lot better than sneaking round her for ages," Ron retorted angrily. "One thing Luna is, is honest. How would you do it? Just keep 'casually' bringing up the subject of Death Eaters, and see if she accidentally mentions having her mum's old "I love Voldemort" T-shirt in the wardrobe? If it is true- and I still think it's just Snape being a git- then she'd work out what you meant- and it'd hurt, Hermione, knowing what we were thinking but knowing we didn't even trust her enough to ask straight out!"

Hermione drew back, with a slight intake of breath, her cheeks flushing, ready to respond.

"She may not even know." Ginny frowned. She directed a penetrating look at Harry's turned back, as the boy gazed out through the curtains. "I suppose we forget our parents are people too. There's a lot we don't know about them. I had no idea mum and dad were actually involved in fighting Tom last time until last year, after all. And Harry..."

The boy gave a short, bitter laugh.

"I was always told mum and dad just scrounged off the state for what they could get." He turned sharply. "Until someone told me differently." Harry folded his arms, half-silhouetted in the dim light from outside. "I like Luna," he said, after a moment's thought. "I like her a lot. She's put up with a lot- and, yes, she's a bit... different," he said, with a ghost of a grin- "But three quarters of us here think it's fun to fly around on a broomstick at sixty miles an hour on a crowded Quidditch pitch." He looked at Hermione. "You might think _we're_ a bit funny in the head as well?" Hermione gave a small, definite nod. "There you are then," Harry continued. "Anyone who's been through what Luna had to go through and still makes sense some of the time deserves a bit of respect... and, well, I just like her," he shrugged. "I don't think you can take it to pieces and work out why. I mean, why do I like Ron?" He surveyed the boy for a moment. Hermione followed his gaze, her expression suggesting she was mentally asking herself a similar question. After a moment, though, her face seemed to soften, slightly, and something of the rigid hostility melt out of her posture towards the red head.

Harry's eye moved on.

"Why do I like Ginny?" he asked, and met the girl's eye with a faint smirk on his features.

"Well, someone's got to keep you off the straight and narrow," Ginny murmured. "Besides, you can't conquer the world on your own."

"True." Harry's eyes danced for a moment, and then- once again, the ruthlessly analytic tone entering his voice, his line of sight dropped away to the floor. "Luna's a friend... but do I 'know' her? That's what I'm asking myself. I know I like her- but there's no denying, it is hard to work out just where she's coming from sometimes... and maybe I've made a mistake. Maybe we all have."

"Oh, look here!" Ron groaned. "Don't start all that again..."

"I'm not saying I have, Ron!" Harry flung his hands up in the air, and stalked back over to the window. "I don't believe it any more than you, or Ginny- or any more than Hermione would like to believe it, if you'd let yourself, 'Mione," he added, over his shoulder. "Luna's one of us- and yes, I still want to trust her to the end of the Earth..."

"...But it's not just 'us' that we've got to decide for," Ginny's lips set in a thin line. "If it was... then it wouldn't be a problem. She's a friend- we trust her until and unless she lets us down... but it's not just us, not any more. If we decide to trust her, and we're wrong..." she got to her feet, starting towards Harry.

_And you know,_

She regarded the boy silently as she approached,

_It's your decision now, somehow._

Harry leant forward against the windowpane, shaking his head slightly, arms folded in front of him.

"Harry, at least we can..." she touched his elbow, starting to pull him round, back to the group- and recoiled, her fingers pulling away and clenching sharply, as if stung, a jolt of sheer cold flashing up her arm and squeezing her heart. Harry's head jerked back suddenly, and he turned in one, quick movement, his own fists clenched tight, tears of pain in his eyes. His hair hung low over his forehead- but a light seemed to her eyes to flicker below it. Folding to his knees, he flung up one hand in a spasmodic motion, pushing the hair back. Beneath, his jagged scar shone, a thin whip-line of unwholesome red, the skin around it suddenly rouged and tender.

"Harry!" Ron and Hermione crossed the room at a run, as Ginny tried to lift the boy to his feet. Harry shook his head, his jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck standing out, and the three of them half walked, half carried him over to the bed.

"No... no time..." Behind the glasses, behind the pain, raw fury burned bright in green eyes, and Harry pushed his legs down, pulling himself upright. His lips were white, and his arms trembled, but he pressed his fingertips to his temples, and slowly nodded to himself. "Get Remus... tell them... it's beginning. He's moving... now."

* * *

When Hermione rushed into the kitchen, her warning died in her throat. Lupin stood alone before the roaring, crackling fire, talking urgently. On the other side of the room, she was just in time to glimpse Mr Weasley, Alastor Moody, and Hestia Jones disapparating with a sharp crack. Mrs Weasley, standing by the table with Bill, closed her eyes for a second, her lips moving soundlessly, and then turned back to the table, helping her son to spread out a large map across it. As Hermione hurried into the room, Lupin- without turning his gaze from the fire, held up a hand.

"In a moment, Hermione. " He returned his full attention to the fire. "All right, Kingsley. You'd better take as many as you can spare. Dumbledore's trying to speak to the Ministry now- even that dratted woman can't claim this isn't an emergency. You'll get more people, I know- yes, I know it means pulling Aurors out of Diagon Alley- but there's no help for it."

"Keep trying to get through to Tonks," Shacklebolt's voice came from the flames, his face indistinct, barely visible. "Tell her to head over to the Alley, and try to hold things together there. If this is a trap I don't want to be the one falling for it." His face pulled back further, vanishing altogether, and Lupin nodded.

"Is Harry all right?" he asked Hermione quickly, crossing to the map as he spoke and leaning over it intently.

Hermione nodded.

"He says he'll be fine- what's happening, Professor- sorry, Remus?"

Lupin looked up at her sharply, his haggard face pale.

"Dementors." His finger jabbed at a spot on the map. "Some Muggle train's broken down- or been put out of action by Death Eaters, more likely- and a whole flock of them just... popped up and attacked. Daedalus Diggle and a couple of others managed to get there- but they can't keep off that many Dementors indefinitely without help- and we've just heard there's been another attack- a village pub in Yorkshire." His finger tapped the map again. "Alastor's taken Arthur and Hestia to try and sort that out-" his eyes narrowed. "Sounds like a couple of vampires."

"It's a diversion." Hermione concluded. "He's trying to draw us out, so we won't have enough forces left when he makes his main attack."

"I know- but what can we do?" Behind them, the fireplace roared. A silver-haired old wizard peered out of the flames at them.

"Remus," he greeted the werewolf perfunctorily. "The Finch-Fletchleys have got trouble down in Kent. Three Death Eaters- or so they say, took a couple of pot-shots at them as they were flying home. They've got protection spells round the house, but they're scared out of their wits. I'm on my way- any chance of some help?"

Hermione paled, and glanced at Lupin. He looked round the kitchen.

"I'm on my way, Elphias," Remus nodded, after a moment's thought, drawing his wand sharply, and beckoning to Bill. Molly Weasley drew her wand as well, ignoring Hermione's surprised expression. Remus half-raised an eyebrow himself- but then let the matter drop, seeing the fierceness in Molly's face. Quickly, he lifted an old coal scuttle down from above the fireplace. "Most of the members of the Order have a Portkey to their homes lying about here somewhere," he told Hermione. "There's a list in a book tucked behind the chimney breast, if you need it."

"Need it...?"

Remus nodded.

"I'm leaving you four in charge here." He paused, and looked seriously at Hermione. "And tell Harry- no heroics. Keeping a base of operations running here's just as important to the fight as what's going on out there." Hurriedly, he donned an old coat, and ushered Bill and Molly around the coal scuttle. "Try to contact Albus Dumbledore again," he instructed Hermione quickly, "And if you hear anything from Nymphadora, wherever she's got to, send her straight on to Diagon Alley like Kingsley asked. See you in the morning- I hope," Remus added, with a sudden Marauder grin, and gripped the handle of the coal scuttle at the same time as his two companions.

Hermione was alone in the kitchen.

* * *

A few faded paper chains hung, loose and dejected, from the cracked ceiling, swaying in the draught from the open window. As a gesture to her remaining patient, Madam Pomfrey had made some small effort to decorate the Hospital Wing for Christmas- not liking the thought that Blaise might awaken on Christmas Day and find that nothing had been done to mark the day for her. Still, as the days wore on, and the year slowly sank into its own deathbed, and Blaise still lay sleeping, her hair lank about her pale face, the decorations had lost their lustre, and the nurse had not had the heart to replace them.

Blaise Zabini slept on, lying in the only made-up bed amidst the rows of stripped mattresses and neatly folded sheets. A charm, woven about the iron head of the bed, would alert Madam Pomfrey when her charge awoke- or if her condition changed, for better or for worse. Aside from that, all that could be done was to attend to her, and to wait.

Yet always, at four-thirty in the afternoon, for an hour or more, sometimes, she was not alone.

Professor Snape showed no emotion, no tenderness, as he sat beside the bed, silent, his head lifted, almost haughtily, his dark and harsh eyes watching her unmoving face. He did not speak- not even to Madam Pomfrey, on the rare occasions that his visits and hers coincided- he simply sat, for an hour or more, black-robed arms folded across his chest, pale hands each gripping the opposing arm, just above the elbow, his knuckles a livid, dead white.

Then- always after five thirty, always before six, without another word, save a sibilant exhalation of breath, he would rise to his feet, and return to his rooms, there to do whatever it was that the Head of Slytherin House felt it necessary to do with his time outside of term.

It was now twenty-to-six. Without looking at the clock on the wall, Snape stood up abruptly, and moved around the bed, putting a hand to Zabini's throat, feeling the girl's sluggish pulse. Unchanged. With a curt nod to his unconscious charge, and a momentary whitening of his lips, the Potions Master turned, striding quickly towards the door. Somewhere in the distance, another door banged back, hard. Snape's lips whitened again- and his habitual frown deepened into a scowl as Argus Filch sent the door to the ward clattering back against the wall as he entered at a run.

"If you _could_ conduct yourself with a little less unnecessary noise and a little more decorum, Filch," he snapped quietly. "I have grown to expect such loutish comportment from the student body, but would hope that the ancillary staff..."

"Professor Snape, sir," Filch caught his breath, wheezing slightly, and coughing. "Beggin' your pardon sir, but Professor McGonagall sent for you." He flapped his hands, vaguely. "It's..." Filch flinched at even the thought of the name. "You-Know-Who, sir. He's moving." The caretaker's eyes rolled round the room, as if expecting Lord Voldemort to crawl out from under one of the beds. Snape took one sharp, hastily drawn-in breath, and nodded curtly. "Tell Professor McGonagall I will be with her in five minutes," he told Filch, and- with one implacable glance backward, left the room.

Filch nodded, leaning against the doorframe to catch his hoarse breath.

"Yes, Professor," he started to say- but Snape had already gone. Irritably- for he knew that Snape had both seen and shown disdain for the fear in Filch's eyes, the caretaker glared at the unconscious student, her presence spoiling the tidy, otherwise pupil-free neatness of the school. "Stuff and nonsense," he snapped, and- in a sudden gesture of defiance, snatched a Put-Outer from his pocket, and extinguished the lamps around the room. "Dratted waste of light," he muttered. "School ought to be empty, lights ought to be out." Filch stumped from the room.

_And the terrible, burning candle flame flickered, and went out._

In the dark, Blaise Zabini's fists suddenly clenched, and she was aware of the pain as fingernails not cut for several weeks dug into her palms. She was at sea, lying on something soft, her head... disparate, like a broken eggshell loosely held together, and strangely numb. When her eyes slowly, painfully opened, wincing even at the dim twilight afternoon which spread through the windows, the ceiling spun lazily over her head.

There was... something she had to remember. Something important. She closed her eyes again, shuddering at the nagging pain as the muscles of her eyelids pulled against her skull. Like a chasm, the void yawned again beneath her- but her fists clenched again, and another, more coherent, very urgent thought shocked her back into wakefulness.

A parched, croaking voice issued from her throat as, once again, with a noise that seemed to bounce around her fragile head several times, growing louder with each repercussion, the door opened once more.

"I'm going to cut off Draco Malfoy's family jewels and shove them up--"

"Miss Zabini, Really!"

Blaise opened her eyes again, and attempted to focus.

"Oh... hello, Madam Pomfrey. What're all the funny paper chains about?"

* * *

**A few too many reviews and too much time elapsed since they were posted to respond to all individually, but I will note:**

**Wolf's Scream: **Re: The Breadknife. I'm determined to give Ron a little more maturity in his attitude to Ginny and Harry than many fanon interpretations of him have offered the boy. That doesn't mean that certain bits of his subconscious aren't doing their own thing, however...

**Tombadgerlock: **Well, as you can now see, it hasn't been abandoned. I prefer to think of it more as being sort of postponed. Pretty much the same way Voldy felt about being disembodied for the majority of Harry's childhood, really. Not for the same reason though.

**Arikitten: **Conversely with Ron, I do like giving Hermione a lighter side every now and again. The girl wouldn't be able to put up with Harry and Ron for six years without quite a bit of a sense of the absurd.

**Chia the Cat and Others: **Welcome aboard. Hope you enjoy the latest additions.

**Ally612: **The Florence Lovegood story strand is one of my favourites to write, so glad you like it- it's going to (eventually) become very important...


	40. Storm over London Town

**Chapter Forty: **Storm over London Town

As the grey sky faded slowly to mottled black, the rain began to come down, drumming on the cobblestone street of Diagon Alley, beating down on the grey hoods of the dozen or so Aurors standing along the street, arms folded, waiting.

Alaric Merton, Auror, Third Class, drew his cloak a little more tightly about him, and glanced nervously at the brooch pinned to it. The glass bauble mounted upon it was clear. It was an elementary piece of equipment- the glass would darken- and remain dark for three minutes, whilst at the same time giving out a low vibration, if anyone apparated, disapparated, or ported within a hundred and fifty metres of the wearer.

The rain began to gush from drainpipes, the length of the alley, trickling and chattering and mumbling its way over the pavements and into the drains, overflowing and running down the roadway. The last few shoppers, those that had not hastened already homeward on hearing rumours of the growing troubles, now turned tail before the rain, hurrying down the streets and alleyways towards the Leaky Cauldron, and sundry other magical hostelries who offered an interchange with the non-magical world, or taking to the skies on broomsticks, cursing the weather. With obvious relief, the shopkeepers busied themselves in the matter of closing their premises for the night.

A lanky, vivid ginger haired youth emerged from the new joke shop a little down the street from Alaric's position, and swung the iron shutters closed over the windows with a series of loud bangs- and a number of quieter pops and whistles, punctuated by the occasional flash as a number of small hexes detonated in the shutter hinges. Nursing his wrist and a grievance, the young wizard passed a few good-naturedly carping observations on booby traps to some colleague inside the shop, and then, his work finished, paused in the shop doorway, surveying the street dubiously. Alaric's eye moved on. A hundred metres or so up the street, he saw old Ollivander wander out and pick up his sign board. The old man met his eye, and gave a queer, knowing sort of smile, before heading back inside with a rapid, shuffling movement.

"What's that about, then, do you suppose?"

Alaric turned with a start, half-drawing his wand. The ginger-haired shopkeeper nodded towards Ollivander's emporium, and continued. "You might think he'd got more to worry about than the rest of us, but he doesn't seem bothered, does he?"

Alaric started to reply, not really certain how to respond to that- when another, almost identically timbred voice came from over his other shoulder.

"Not bothered in the least, is he, Fred?"

"Which looks a little bit shifty..."

"... not to mention suspicious."

"Rude too. He didn't want to talk to us, did he?"

The two of them scanned the street silently, while Alaric waited, a little awkwardly, between them. Then one twin's hand descended on his shoulder.

"So we'll talk to you, shall we?"

Seraphic smiles pinned him to left and right. Merton shifted from foot to foot. They'd all been given instructions, of course. Answer any and all questions from civilians politely, assure them that they are not in danger, and urge them to stay indoors. Play down the possibility of an actual attack where possible. On no account are you to discuss You-Know-Who.

"It's er, just a safety measure, sir, having us here. With all the recent stories in the press, the Ministry feels..."

"A safety measure, is it, Constable?" George looked at his twin. "I don't feel especially safe, do you, Fred?"

Alaric shifted his shoulders, trying to encourage the two civilians to release him. Sergeant Lanstrad, a few street doors further on, had heard the discussion and was watching with interest.

"Not safe at all, George." Fred coughed, and cast a rain-repulsion charm over their heads as the drumming of falling water on the roadway grew momentarily louder. "But then, perhaps we're being paranoid or silly..."

"...Because what could You Know Who and a whole lot of Death Eaters do in Diagon Alley when it's guarded by all of... how many do you count?"

"Twelve." The twin who had counted directed a hard look at Alaric, and for just a moment, Constable Merton saw beneath the mockery. "All of twelve Aurors." The other twin glared at him.

"How many do you count, Constable?"

"I'm sorry, sir, all I can tell you is that the Ministry feels that adequate provision has been maintained..."

"I'll take over from here, thank you, Constable." Lanstrad, a solid, thickset man with close-cropped grey hair and one-and-a-half ears chose that moment to intervene, strolling heavily down the street. "Carry on, Merton."

With a faint sigh of relief, Alaric pulled himself back to attention- inwardly cringing at the look of contempt that flashed across his Sergeant's face as he did so.

_Can't handle talking to a couple of rattled civvies? I bet he'd like to see how you do in combat, then. _

He clenched his jaw tight.

"Do I gather you two gents are a bit concerned about things?" Lanstrad leant against the shop window, arms folded, and gave a half grin to the two of them. "Just leave it to us. I've got a good body of men here. They'll handle any trouble."

"And what if they don't?" One twin questioned. "There's a lot of people in this street, Sergeant, and not everyone knows how to Apparate. Don't you think you ought to be organising an evacuation or something?"

Lanstrad spread his hands.

"Not my decision." He gave them an understanding look, incongruously subtle on his blunt, scarred face. "Of course, you're free to leave if you want." He stepped aside, a hand gesturing towards the roadway. "Don't worry about your shop. My lads'll see no looting goes on."

"Listen, if you want my advice- I'd say 'leave', OK?" Lanstrad leant closer, his voice a bitter whisper. "But I can't give that kind of order, got it?" Fred stared at him. The Sergeant looked around the street. "The Acting Minister doesn't want to start a panic. She reckons there's not enough danger--"

"Sergeant, there are several dozen people living on this street- and in Knockturn Alley... and what about the Leaky Cauldron? Some of them have got _children_, for crying out loud!" Fred broke off short, as Lanstrad's large fist gripped his arm painfully.

"She doesn't want to give in to terrorism, she says- and she won't weaken the guard around the Ministry, not after what happened last time. Look..." he shook his head. "I just can't do anything about it, all right. Orders are orders. Maybe someone high up- like Shacklebolt or Dawlish- might be able to get some help, but Dawlish won't say boo to a goose now. Got his eye on his pension, that one." Lanstrad released his grip, and straightened his uniform, his face hardening again. "We'll be all right here," he said, again, in a louder voice, and turned his head sharply. Alaric jumped, pulling his own face to face front again. "Isn't that right, Constable," Lanstrad growled. "Nothing's going to get past us."

Fred and George looked at each other, the dull green of their robes steadily darkening in the rain, despite the charms about them.

"Fat chance of getting hold of Kingsley tonight- you heard what Lupin said," Fred muttered. "Just got to hope Dumbledore manages to talk Dumbridge round."

George paused, hand on the shop door, and shot a bleak look at his twin.

"You never know- they might be right. Nothing might happen." He and Fred both looked up and down the street. Faces peered from upper windows- questioning, some excited, others frightened. Children stared down at the Aurors for a moment, and then were pulled away from the glass, the anxious and wan faces of parents visible for a moment through the rain-streaming panes as they withdrew. On the faces of the Aurors, behind the set jaws and grim eyes, fear and doubt twinkled merrily in almost all of their visages. Overhead, the thunder rolled. Fred gave a weak laugh.

"Yeah, and on that day, Argus Filch will be hosting the First Years' Christmas Party."

* * *

Ron, Ginny, and Harry made their way a little unsteadily down the staircase, Harry supported between the two Weasleys, his feet slipping and stumbling on the stairs, one hand pressed tight to his forehead. 

"C'mon Harry, in here," Ron guided them into the kitchen, and then slipped back, hastily checking the bolts and wards on the front door. "That's all right, at least," he muttered to Hermione, dropping into a chair opposite her on his return to the kitchen. Harry leant forward over the table, his glasses folded , gripped in one hand, while the other rubbed ferociously at his scar, still burning violent cherry red against his skin, as Voldemort's malice waxed in the world.

"W-wait." Harry shuddered, pulling his head up and back, his eyes red and watering. His breath came in great gasps- but his pupils were fine pinpricks, and his voice low. "I'm... I'm all right." He clasped Ginny's hand, drawing in one deep breath after another.

"This is an interesting definition of 'all right'," Ginny observed, in slightly barbed tones. "It must be one I've not encountered before--"

"It's the one I use most days." Harry- with an effort- managed a slight grin. Last term's Occlumency practice with the Headmaster had not been in vain. The pain was still there- pawing and prying around the edge of his brain, driving ice-cold and fire-hot razorblades into his scar- but it was distant, remote, kept separate from the main matter of his thought by a mental barrier- and what Harry had learned when he faced Voldemort in the hills behind Hogwarts also proved useful. He gritted his teeth, visualising the connection in his mind, almost seeing with his waking eye the sickly malice and hatred of the adversary as it flowed along the thin strand of thought between them- and twisting it back, his mind spinning, throwing off a tangled web of emotions and illogical daydream, enmeshing, entangling, and impeding the flow of the pain.

That was better. He took another long breath, and slowly relaxed his death-grip on the chair arm.

"It comes at you like a Dementor," he told Ginny. "Except- I don't know- maybe it's more like a Dementor's kiss would be- already connected. Just his mind." He glanced at Hermione, her face already buried in the fire once more, then back to Ginny. "I don't think he was attacking me, this time- it doesn't feel like that- not quite- and nothing like last year, when he was trying to get hold of me. Hermione and Dumbledore both said that even Riddle can't completely control it. His mind and mine- we're like opposite poles joined together." He shook his head- wincing a little- and looked up as the other witch stepped away from the flames. "Any luck getting through to Dumbledore?"

"None." The bushy-haired girl pressed her lips together. "I can't even make contact. He must still be talking with Umbridge." Harry half-rose to his feet. "Harry, Remus told all four of us to stay here."

Harry swore. He'd done enough, hadn't he? Enough to be one of them. 'Stay here'. People were fighting out there- fighting a war he had started. 'Stay here.' He had... no. He drew a steadying breath, and sat down again. No, he hadn't started it. He turned his eyes to a particular chair, not far from the fire. Empty. Courage was one thing. Skill another. He was honest enough with himself to know that he was reasonably capable of both now- but however certain he might be in his own mind that Voldemort was _not_ deceiving him, that this time there had been no will, no malign intent behind the Dark Lord's intrusion on his mind- the fact remained that more than once before, that connection had been used against him- and the price had been high. He swallowed again. "All right. Unless we don't have any other choice," he qualified it aloud, and then nodded to Hermione.

Beside him, her legs drawn up under herself on the chair, Ginny frowned, deep in thought, one hand making small, curling movements through the air in front of her face.

Ron was studying the map.

"It looks like they _are _going for Diagon Alley," he remarked, a little dubiously. "Voldemort's drawing as many of us out as he can- but he's not really committed much of his forces. He's definitely holding back for something- and from the way he's pulling us all out of London- Diagon Alley's the logical target."

"It's not the only possibility," Hermione joined him. "What about the Ministry again- or- or," she changed the subject hastily, "Or St. Mungos?"

"Both quite close." Ron nodded. "The Aurors can cover all three- and they're based in St. Mungos at the moment. I dunno- but from what Dad's said, I don't think He's strong enough to take on the Auror headquarters yet. They keep some pretty hefty Defence gear. And he's going to be after people- and making a statement, after what Harry did to him." He tapped the map unhappily. "It still all looks like Diagon Alley to me."

Hermione gave him a concerned look. "Fred and George can take care of themselves, Ron," she murmured. "And they're not stupid, however much they both act it. They'll disapparate if things get too dangerous."

"It's not that, Hermione." Ron shook his head, glancing at Harry. "Remember what you were saying about all that 'Kill the Spare' business? You-Know-Who likes playing games with us."

Harry nodded, and folded his arms, his brow furrowed. He'd anticipated as much, and made a further journey to Ollivander's soon after his return to London, with a further sum of money. The wand was safe- whatever happened, he had no desire to make Voldemort the present of a replacement phoenix-core wand. More distant now, the pain still nagged at him, clawing its way through his emotions. He gathered in his thoughts, listening to the night-sounds of the house around them, creaking and shifting, the crackling of the fire, the breathing of his companions, drawing his thoughts to a point.

_Focus, Potter._

He shot a slight grin at Ginny, at that- and found her watching him, thoughtfully. She frowned for a moment, and then spoke.

"Do you think..." she stopped, and flicked back her hair, then continued. "Harry, I don't know if this makes sense or not- but if he does come at you like a Dementor- then what about the Patronus charm?" She frowned. "We might have to get Hermione to help with the research, but if we could modify it in some way--"

"Oh no." Hermione rounded on the two of them, hands on hips. For a brief moment, Harry was irresistably reminded of Ron and Ginny's mother. "Ginny, you and Harry are as bad as each other. We told you what Professor Milner said about trying to alter spells without taking proper precautions."

"I'll _be_ careful," Ginny protested. "Really, the way some people go on you'd think I was going to blow up the sun, or turn everyone into shrimp or something- or make the Chudley Cannons win the Quidditch World Cup," she added, for the benefit of Ron. "Why do you think I was talking about asking you for help?"

"Ginny, this isn't just switching sense impressions on magical portraits- or even tweaking bits of attack and defence spells," Hermione leant over the table, "The Patronus charm is old magic- it's very powerful. It reaches right into the spellcaster's soul. It's not the sort of thing you meddle with unless you _really_ know what you're doing."

"Well, obviously someone did- otherwise we'd never have got the original charm in the first place," Ginny folded her arms in defiance. "And if it'll help Harry with Little Tommy..."

Hermione sighed.

"Ginny, far be it from me to attempt to understand how Weasleys run their love lives, but can I just point out that, just maybe, the _inside of your boyfriend's skull_ is not the best place to be letting off powerful and untested new spells!"

"She has got a point, Ginny." Ron scratched his head. "I dunno- maybe if you talked to Dumbledore or Milner first."

"We don't know if we can even trust Milner any more," Ginny countered. Harry rose to his feet abruptly, stalking back to the window. It was dangerous- he knew that- to think too deeply about the connection at the moment, his mind's treacherous drifts steering him back towards it, interfering with the wall of emotional obfuscation he'd erected around the link... but he remembered his last duel with Voldemort, and casting pleasure, happiness, friendship, back in the Dark Lord's teeth. If there was only a way to harness that into some sort of spell... But then there was Ginny to think of. He looked back at her, and began to wonder. They'd all lost so much to Voldemort, these last few years. He remembered his own rage, crackling about him as he raged through Hogwarts like a thunderstorm. He remembered Draco, eyes wide in terror after he had pushed Harry Potter too far. He remembered that terrible Quidditch game against Ravenclaw, when the dark and the hatred were all he could see.

_None of us ever want to feel that way again. _

He drew a deep breath, and came back to the table. The other three looked up at him, eyes questioning.

"It's worth thinking about." He laid a hand on Ginny's shoulder. "But," he added, eyes flicking up to meet the challenge in Hermione's face, "Don't take any risks- just... look at the theory for now, all right? I talked to Milner about Florence, you three didn't." He lowered his eyes to Ginny's again. "Whatever else he was telling the truth or not about, I think he was being honest about how she died." He lowered his voice, eyes focused on her alone. "And I can't do this without you, Gin."

* * *

Vernon stretched out his feet in front of the fire, and let his stomach settle contentedly. Complain about it he might- and certainly, when that dratted alarm clock had started its pestering and whining at six o'clock this morning, he assuredly had done, but it was good to get back to work. 

The good old morning routine had pushed away some of the nagging worries that had been roosting on him over Christmas- and, if things were far from good at Grunnings, then they were at least not as bad as he'd been imagining them by light of streetlamp through bedroom curtains these last few nights. He laced his coffee with a drop more whisky, and frowned at the television set. Another thing- at least Dudley was being quiet tonight. Couldn't quite fathom it- the boy had seemed funny since the morning. It was a bit odd for him to spend the day at home, come to that, but Vernon supposed Dudley, too, knew that normal life was resuming, and had obviously thought he'd best cut along and put a bit of time into his homework. It didn't account for that queer, almost sick look Petunia had seen on the boy's face when he'd come home- but then, perhaps Dudley had a lot of work to do. Fine, bright boy like him, it wouldn't have surprised Vernon at all if his teachers gave him a bit extra to do- just to keep him stretched. After all, Mr Dursley knew his son could get a bit high-spirited, when he was bored. Only natural. Very talented boy.

The commercial break began, and Vernon rose creaking to his feet, shuffling over to the window to close the curtains. Outside, he saw old Mrs Figg wheeling her shopping trolley along. She stopped, and gave the house a peculiar look. With a slight angry reddening of the face, Vernon pulled the curtains closed with a swish. Damned old dear kept staring at the house these days. Going batty most likely. He snorted, remembering a time not that long ago when Petunia and he had entrusted the old woman to look after the Potter boy for them. Well, no surprise there, then. That brat could drive anyone around the bend, given enough time. He stomped back to the armchair. In the kitchen, he could hear Petunia washing up. Upstairs, Dudley moved across his room, floorboards creaking their protest. Outside, someone was humming.

Vernon clicked his teeth in exasperation. Irritating sort of sound, he reflected. Close, too. Surely not old Nigel next door. Daft old beggar couldn't carry a tune anyway. Very close...

Fingers lightly, very lightly, tapped on the window.

"Ruddy kids!" Vernon flung down his newspaper, marching across to the window and flinging the curtains wide. No one. Trees bent and creaked in the slight wind, and a smattering of rain danced across the glass. Was that what he had heard? He looked to left and right. There was no one in the street, except old Figgy, way down at the far end, huddling deeper into her tatty old coat, as if feeling a sudden chill. Vernon sneered at her in the distance. Not her, surely. The old nanny goat couldn't move that fast. He looked to and fro once more. No doubt about it. The front garden was quite empty. He closed the curtains- and a knock came at the front door.

"Who's that, Vernon?" he heard Petunia call out- she must have heard him pull back the curtains before the knock.

"I'm just going to find out," he grunted angrily, marching to the door. He'd teach these local brats a thing or two if they... He wrenched the door open. No one. A thought struck deep in the pig-cunning of his mind, and he looked down at the flagstone doorstep. It had never sat quite straight since that stupid nephew of his had sat down on it while the cement was still wet- but there was still water on its surface, and not a trace of footprints could be seen. Well, then, they must have had long arms. Once more, he looked to left and right. Old Figg seemed to be flailing her arms about down there on the corner. Probably forgotten she wasn't carrying an umbrella. Daft old trout ought to be happy in the rain, Vernon reflected with customary charity, slamming the door shut.

* * *

Arabella Figg stamped her heels on the wet pavement. Botheration. If only that fool Mundungus hadn't disappeared. They were supposed to be trailing the magical signature together- what use did he imagine she would be on her own? She sniffed the air. She could just sense it- on the edge of feeling, a frayed edge of magic. Not strong enough. Not enough to find it or even to follow it, let alone ascertain what could possibly be causing it. She leant forward on her shopping trolley, her nose wrinkling at the cabbage-stench issuing from it, and made up her mind. Home. There would be another day. She turned the trolley, screwing up her face against the rain- and felt it behind her. Cold. She continued to walk, the sweat forming on her brow, her eyes sidling down and to the right. Her shadow lurched, unnaturally elongated, in great uneven steps along the road, its feet in the gutter, the sodium haze of the streetlamps illuminating it, ratcheting it forward and longer- and fainter, as she moved further away from one lamp and towards the next, while another copy of the shadow slowly gathered substance behind. Two shadows crept along the pavement. She kept walking, moving slowly back along Privet Drive, her face turned ahead, terrified lest that second shadow should realise that she had seen it, and known it for what it was- but her eyes swivelled, never left it. No closer it walked, and no further. She listened. She could not hear its feet, but in the noise of the worsening rain there was another noise, as the falling water bounced off cloth behind her. A slender figure, a hooded figure. A woman's breathing. 

_A Dementor casts no shadow, for it is shadow itself. A Death Eater.  
_

She paused, negotiating the little trolley over a loose slab, and the shadow did not pause, but grew closer- and then stopped, its head turning. Mrs Figg's heart faltered.

_She had turned her head. The shadow had seen. It knew that she knew that it followed._

A slender arm of shadow reached out, and, with strength she did not think she longer possessed, and a roar of anger, Arabella Figg swung round, lifting the canvas and metal assembly of the trolley and throwing it in the face of the Death Eater, a good half-dozen Defence Wards and Attack Potions detonating against the Dark witch's shields.

"That's for you, Bellatrix Lestrange!" she ran, then, lungs heaving, arthritic legs protesting in fury. She could never reach her own home now- even if the wards the Order had placed about it were strong enough- but there was a closer refuge, and the charms that protected _his_ home were strong indeed. She turned into the driveway, saw lights behind the curtains, heard soft footsteps in the road, tried to forget the one sight of the white-masked face, seen for an instant as Bellatrix had staggered back. She reached the porch. Desperately, she pounded on the door. The wards around number four would be strong enough to keep them out.

"Let me in, Dursley!"

"What the blue blazes is going on out there!" she heard Harry's Uncle bellow from the far side of the door, and redoubled her efforts. "Push off, the lot of you! Damned kids!"

"Let me in!" Mrs Figg scrabbled at the letter box. She could feel it, prickling along her shoulders as the dark terror approached. "And start a fire! We have to talk to Albus Dumbledore..."

An oath exploded in the hall, beyond the locked door.

"Go away! I might have known you damned freaks would be mixed up in this somehow. Don't you dare say that name within a hundred yards of my house, you old harpy!"

The garden gate clicked, and swung prosaically open behind Arabella. She did not dare to turn.

"LET ME IN!" She beat upon the door.

A throaty chuckle sounded dry and deep behind her.

"Not by the hairs on your chinny-chin-chin..." Bellatrix made a small purring noise of delight in her throat, like a child fussing over a pet.

"I'm warning you, I'll have the police on the whole lot of you!" Dursley shouted.

"Vernon?" another voice sounded, more distant. "Whatever is it?"

A hand touched Arabella Figg's shoulder, and she froze, tears in her eyes. "Now, now," the woman's voice behind her whispered smoothly. "That wasn't very nice, was it..."

"Nothing! NOTHING-IS-HAPPENING-HERE!" Dursley shouted.

"So I'll huff... and I'll puff... and I'll blow your mind in..." The spell lifted, and Mrs Figg turned, lashing out, stumbling as the Lestrange woman's legs scythed out beneath her, sending the old lady crashing down, her back striking heavily against the door.

"I said go away!" Dursley roared from within. Mrs Figg shrieked, her arm flung up, beating desperately on the door as she stared down ten inches of black wood at the hooded, white-masked figure that loomed over her, darker than darkness. Once again, tinged with a sickening anticipation, the chuckle sounded from within the mask. Arabella's feet scrabbled for purchase on the stones.

"Nothing but a pathetic Squib," the Death Eater purred. "The disgusting symptom of interbreeding with Muggles. Your once rich blood watered down to nothing. Oh, how your ancestors should thank me for this... "

* * *

"Vernon?" Petunia's face was pale. She stood in the kitchen doorway, sleeves rolled up, her husband's dinnerplate, lathered with washing-up foam, still clutched between magnolia-gloved hands. Vernon turned, eyes starting, and pressed his back against the door. 

"I said it's nothing!" He stared at her. That ridiculous business last autumn- not to mention the boy, and the steady stream of weirdos that had been coming to this house for the last couple of years since he started at that damned school. It had to stop. No more. No more. He turned again, as the daft old biddy croaked out something else.

"Just push off! We don't want you!"

"Help meee!"

Vernon pressed his face to the letterbox. Opening it, he saw for a moment a terrible vision- a white face in black robes. He pressed his hands to his temples. Something about that face... He remembered seeing fear in the Potter boy's eyes once.

"NOT IN MY HOUSE!" He roared, closing the letterbox.

"But, Vernon, what is it?"

Outside, a low chuckle reached its apex.

_"Crucio!"_

As a heavy body slammed against the doorframe once more and slid down it, screeching in pain, Vernon Dursley's best dinnerplate slipped from his wife's fingers and shattered on the floor.

* * *

Harry had been standing by the window, peering across the twinkling night of the London skyline in what he hoped was the general direction of Diagon Alley. He turned, as a sharp crack and soft hiss of displaced air announced an Apparition. 

"Remus!" Hermione tried to steady her old teacher on his feet, as the thin wizard staggered, one hand falling open, his wand dropping to the floor, the other pressed to his scalp, fingers entangled in his thinning hair. Ron and Harry took one shoulder each, holding Lupin upright, his head hanging. With a shudder that Harry felt flow through each muscle of his arms and shoulders, Remus Lupin shook his head violently, like a dog clearing its head.

"Where are you hurt?" Ginny put a hand to a bad tear in the man's jacket, and a patch of dark blood across his shirt beneath. Lupin shook his head again, seeming to more or less hear her question, and Hermione put her hand under his chin, lifting his face gently and, holding her wand like a surgical instrument, levelled it in front of each of the man's eyes in turn.

"Lumos argent," she cast, and peered intently at his pupils, nodding to herself. Harry frowned, glancing out of the window.

"It's weeks until the full..." he protested, but Lupin, wiry muscles trembling slightly, pulled his own feet back under him.

"Not... no danger now," he said, with a tired half-smile- more for their benefit than anything else, Harry rather suspected. He and Ron lowered the man into a chair by the fire, and then, wordlessly, Harry crossed back to the window and pulled the curtains closed. Little of the waxing crescent's silver light penetrated through the driving rain, but Hermione was not the only one to have recognised certain... tell-tale signs in Remus' countenance. Of course, at the full moon itself the moon's power would eventually reach him, whether he hid from it or no, but there was no sense in taking chances, for all that. Ginny rummaged in the kitchen cupboards for a moment, and then, with a faint grin, handed Lupin a small piece of dark chocolate.

"A present from Bill," she noted.

"Thank you, Molly," Remus murmured, eyes unfocused. He shook his head again. "Ginny," he corrected himself. Sorry... " he ate the chocolate and straightened slightly. "Not quite as effective as against Dementors- but it does some good."

"What happened?" Hermione frowned.

Lupin shook his head. "Just a moment, Hermione... sorry." He massaged his temples with the forefingers of both hands, resting his elbows on the table.

"You are all right, aren't you?" Harry moved closer, his hand almost unconsciously moving a little closer to the wand in his left sleeve. Ron, he noticed, had done the same. Neither of them had forgotten a moonlit night outside the Shrieking Shack, three years ago.

Remus coughed.

"I will be in a moment... we drove off the Death Eaters- the Finch-Fletchleys were fine- and someone's taught that Justin boy a fine _Expelliarmus_, I must say," he added, with a ghost of a grin at Harry. "He couldn't Disarm a chocolate frog back when I was teaching him... still, one of them... just caught me with the edge of a curse as he Disapparated. Just a bit weak, that's all- and that, and the moonlight... well, I thought it'd be safer all round if I left Doge and Fletcher to handle the clearing up, let's put it that way."

Thunder rattled the window panes and clashed overhead.

"We've just heard from Dad as well," Ginny told him. "They've about finished- and the Ministry have sent out people to look after any Muggle witnesses."

"Oh, they're quick enough off the mark with the Obliviators," Lupin muttered in disgust. "Dumbledore got word to me, just before I came back. That blasted woman won't lift a finger. Not enough Aurors available to weaken the guard around the Ministry, apparently." He slammed a fist down on to the tabletop, dragging his nails across the surface. "She won't even order a state of emergency. Doesn't want to be seen to be giving in to He Who Must Not Be Named's terror tactics."

Ginny swore, a word that made even Ron's hair curl slightly.

"Ginny-" Hermione began, but got no further.

"Oh, that's convenient of her, isn't it?" Ginny turned about sharply, glaring at the fire, the flames wavering slightly in a faint wash of accidental magic blowing off from her. "Y'know, Harry, I think I actually prefer Little Tommy. At least he's not quite as two-faced."

Harry repressed a memory of his meeting with Quirrell at the end of his first year, and frowned.

"How do you mean?" he began, and then stopped, meeting her eyes, and nodding grimly. It was sound tactical thinking, in a way, and the part of him that could filter out his emotions, let them drain away to deadly calm during his Occlumency could recognise that. Tie the Aurors hands, and so force the Order to confront Voldemort unaided. Silently, reading his chain of deduction in his eyes, Ginny nodded back, and set her jaw. Umbridge didn't _need_ to be a Death Eater, didn't need to be working for Voldemort. She didn't even need to _know_ about the Order of the Phoenix- she simply had to deduce, from the vast if somewhat oxymoronic intelligence agency appertaining to the Ministry, and more importantly from her own paranoia, that such an organisation must exist in some form... and that was enough.

"I suppose you ought to feel flattered, really," Ginny concluded to him, aloud. "If she really thinks you and Dumbledore are a bigger threat to her government than Voldemort is. Still, you're turning into quite a powerful wizard these days- all my good influence, of course," she gave him a savage sort of grin, and went on, "And you've not exactly been on the best terms with the Ministry of Magic lately. Someone can be not allied to Voldemort in the slightest- and still be perfectly happy to push you in front of a Killing Curse, Harry."

"She's playing with fire, Gin." Harry's eyes met hers again, and saw steel there. If they were right, Umbridge's treachery had set the Amoeba Vendetta on a school full of children... and possibly, if Harry's darkest suspicion were true, had condemned Cornelius Fudge, Percy Weasley, and dozens of her own colleagues to death. All this, because Umbridge for some reason believed Harry to be a threat to her, and her plans. Ginny's lips formed a faint line of steely satisfaction, mirroring that on his own face. With a certain cold determination, Harry recognised the culmination of another self-fulfilling prophecy.

Outside, the storm grew worse- and a flash of lightning lit up the curtains. Ron moved to the window, peering out, holding the curtain so as to shield Lupin from the moonlight as best he could- just as, in the distance, fire erupted in the sky over Diagon Alley.

* * *

"No good?" Fred leant against the door. His brother stepped away from the fire. 

"Not a chance." George folded his arms inside the sleeves of his robe, and, with a quickly muttered charm, flicked his hood up with some surreptitious wandwork. "Kingsley's up to his eyeballs in vampires, no one seems to even know where the hell Tonks is, and Dad's still busy clearing up. I'm not even going to bother _trying _Dawlish. And the fire's damp. There's rain coming down the chimney- did you actually get the chimney cap fixed?"

"I wrote it in the ledger." Fred grinned at him, grateful for a chance to lighten the mood. "You're going to hire a craftswizard to fix it just as soon as we've got enough money."

"Are you sure we can afford to wait until Ginny's twenty-first?"

"Quite true." Fred launched himself off from the door. The rain was beating against it, and the wind was a low murmuring, muttering sound that ebbed and flowed with the flash of lightning in the street outside. "We wouldn't want to be showing her and Harry's sixth sprog round a shop with a leaky chimney, would we?"

"Anyway," George peered through the window, frowning slightly at something, as the wind's rumble grew louder. "Imagine trying to Floo through that. You'd probably end up half-raindrop or something. It'd make splinching yourself look like a joke."

"Splinch yourself." Fred glared. "I thought we weren't going to mention that. It was only a spleen."

"My spleen!" George gave him a good-natured shove. "I needed it, thanks- and you'd already got one. What did you want another one for?"

"I lost concentration! I told you trying to Apparate simultaneously was a bit risky to learn."

"No you didn't! You said 'Let's try it!' I should have known. Any other of my body parts you were looking for--" he stopped, holding up a hand, and opening the window. Rain lashed their faces, and Fred looked at him in confusion, as the wind rose around them- and then his eyes widened in comprehension.

There was a voice on the air.

_... tempesta pluvia acidia... tempesta pluvia acidia..._

Magic surged, charging the air, and the storm roared with increased force, the rain pouring down, lashing through rain-shield and canopy alike. George drew his hand back from the windowsill, howling as if stung. A spray of rain went in his twin's face, and Fred swore, flinging up a hand to shield his eyes. Red welts formed across one brother's hand, and the other's cheek. Drawing back, Fred pulled the window sharply closed.

"What the hell's that?"

_... tempesta pluvia acidia veni dementor..._

"I know that voice..." It was cultured, urbane, but cruel, hard, unyielding... and now it came not soft upon the air, but from the street outside, where Aurors staggered, their capes pulled up about themselves, singed by the burning rain, desperately pouring more and more strength into their shields, the sky above Diagon Alley a-flicker with purple haloes and spitting raindrops- and everywhere they landed, stone and wood sizzled.

"VENI DEMENTOR!"

They saw Lanstrad, swinging his own shield down against a dark figure as it stepped forth from Knockturn Alley, still chanting, protected by a phalanx of his troops, their own shields aimed skyward. Then, more shapes, darker, taller and thinner even than the pale-masked Death Eater... and their hands were withered, their bodies empty. The shadows moved. Dark corners stirred and reached forth, moving soundlessly over the ground, approaching from all sides. The Aurors clustered together. A sickly chill crawled over the twins, even safe inside their shop, immobilising them. They saw the Dementors swoop closer. Two Aurors tried their luck with the Patronus Charm- but more Dementors swept in, hands reaching forth... and the chill was now behind the brothers as well as in front. They turned, wands drawn, hands clasped.

"Expecto Patronum!" Twin bursts of silver webbing ensnared and burned at the creatures, as Fred wrenched the door open... and was flung back, the door kicked off its hinges. A Death Eater stood framed in the doorway, wand held high, the Killing Curse upon his hidden lips. Then, behind him, another cloaked figure raised his wand, a face no older than their own filled with fear, but clinging to what training he had been given.

"St... Stupefy!" The Constable's Stunner hit the dark wizard from behind, and he fell headlong, stumbling. Alaric Merton stared, half-stunned himself, his wand lowering. "C-come on, they're attacking... you've got to... help..." But the Dementors swept forward again- and in the middle of the street, Sergeant Lanstrad fell in a flash of green light. A great cry of wrath went up from the Aurors, and silver light flashed in Diagon Alley.

For a moment, just a moment, it seemed that the tide had turned- but from every shadow, a caped ghoul rose up. The hounds of Azkaban had risen.

"Nothing we can do here alone." George's voice was quiet and sober, its normal playfulness quite gone. "We need to get reinforcements." He tensed himself- and then frowned, trying again. Alaric grabbed his arm, his frightened eyes wild beneath his hood.

"It won't work- we can't disapparate, I don't know why... it's like... like Hogwarts, like there's some ward or something... oh no..." he shrank back, sinking to his knees, the reaper-like shade of a Dementor rearing up behind him, hands reaching out.

"Expecto Patronum!" Fred drove it back, and Constable Merton turned, his own wand flashing in his hands. "Obliterata Malus!" he yelled, his hand shaking- and the spell went wild, striking the pavement. Cobblestones fountained up, raining upwards against the downpour of acid rain from above. George, still trying to disapparate, tried too late to twist away, as a stone struck Merton's temple and he fell senseless to the ground, and Fred grabbed his arm, pulling him back. A small, square stone the size of a toad hit Fred on the side of his face and he cried out, another bouncing off his back, a third impacting on his kneecap as he twisted. George, coming to his senses, threw up a shield, half-dragging his twin back into the shop. Two Dementors lunged at them- and passed by, lowering their caped forms over the bodies of Alaric Merton and the fallen Death Eater- easier prey. Sick at heart, George slammed the door.

"We've got to contact Remus- else it'll be a slaughter!" He paused to look at his twin. "You all right?"

Fred winced, sitting down heavily on the floor. "I feel like a bludger," he grimaced, spitting out a cracked tooth. The chill was growing stronger again, and the light outside was failing, the cries of battle becoming shrieks of terror... and there were new voices amid the cries, now, voices who were not afraid- and the twins could hear the words of the Killing Curse as they sounded in the black night.

* * *

Harry halted half-way down the stairs when he heard the voices, his hand curled round the rough, slightly damp wood of the banister, listening in the darkness of the hall to the voices coming through the half open kitchen door. He'd found the little glass tub Remus had asked for- marked with a peeling and waterstained handwritten label as "G. R. Malkin: The Mixture", and containing a rather gelatinous liquid the colour of cloudy lemonade and with an aroma reminiscent of Colin Creevey's photographic developing fluids, and hurriedly started back towards the kitchen, as the storm continued to worsen. Then, as he started down the stairs, he'd heard the fire roar, and one of the twins- George, he thought- call out. 

"Can't you just come through the Floo?" Ron asked.

"No good." Remus's very voice sounded dead tired, the words tripping over their toes and stumbling- but growing more quietly assured as he went on, perhaps reacting to the faint hint of panic in Ron's voice. "They'll have put the polarising filter back on the Floo network now. Sending speech is fine- but you can't travel that way. All very well and good- at least it stops You-Know-Who dropping in on people that way, but it doesn't help us now. Try to disapparate again, George."

There was a pause, and then, again:

"No good," the voice echoed from the fire. "Sounds like it's all over the Alley, from what the Aurors said. Some kind of anti-Apparition ward. Anyway, I don't think Fred's up to apparating. Can't you get through to Dumbledore?"

"There are Death Eater attacks everywhere, George," Hermione told him. "We're spread too thin." Her voice, too, seemed leaden, lifeless with dread.

"We'll be all right!" Harry heard the other twin's voice come, more faintly, from elsewhere in the fire. "Don't worry about us, Hermione..."

"... George is right," George continued, with a false ring in his words, "Even if those Dement--" Then the flame crackled- and the voice was gone.

"George!" Harry heard Ginny shout, getting to her feet, and Ron running forward, calling out "Weasley's Wizard Wheezes" as he threw more Floo powder into the fire. Harry was already moving, descending the stairs as Ginny turned to Remus.

"We can't stay here." She glanced at Ron, then back to the former Professor, sitting huddled in his chair, his face grey. "Not again," she added, after a moment. "We've got to help them."

"I intend to." Harry flicked the door back, moving in at a steady pace. "Remus- which is the Portkey to Fred and George's shop?" he handed the wounded werewolf the tub of liquid. Lupin took a spoon, and added half a teaspoonful of the tub's contents to his tea, stirring it for a moment, and seeming to revive a little from the effect of the aroma alone, pungent as it was. He- after a second's thought- indicated a rusty saucepan tucked behind the stove.

"From how they described it, that's a lot of Dementors, Harry," the man said, quietly, watching as Ron and Hermione both checked their wands- Hermione also reaching for the Portkey. "The brim's the trigger, Hermione," he noted, and the girl lifted it by the handle, setting it down in the centre of the table. "Watch your back."

"You're not going to tell me not to go?" Harry asked with slight surprise, rummaging hurriedly in his bag.

"Would you listen if I did?" Lupin offered the boy a tired smile. "I know neither James or Sirius would. Sirius didn't," he added, after a moment, almost to himself, and his eyes half closed. As Harry started to speak again, Remus interrupted. "Just be careful. I'll be fine here, now." He took a sip of the tea.

The boy nodded, and looked up at Ginny, as the other three moved round the table, clustering round the Portkey. "Gin..."

"Potter," Ginny folded her arms. "I ought to warn you, the door between you and a whole world of pain is only about as thick as the words 'Stay behind, Ginny.' She turned her head, giving Harry a questioning glance, a faint twinkle in her eye none the less. Ron grabbed her arm.

"Ginny, you haven't got a wand..."

_And here's the flipside. I just want to keep her safe... but the truth is, I need her. The truth is, we're stronger together than we are apart, all four of us. I could do it. I could say something she'd believe- she wouldn't be happy about it, but I could find words in my head that'd make her stay behind. Safe._

_But that's not my decision. It's hers, and this is everyone's fight._

"I was going to say," Harry took a slim box from the bag, and opened it, passing the beech-and-phoenix feather wand he'd had made for her to the girl, his eyes glinting, "Happy Birthday."

Ginny's eyes flicked up to his, and widened very slightly- and then down to the wand again, turning it in her hands. She gave an experimental flick of the wrist, and sparks flew. "Ah, but it's not my birthday yet."

"You know what I'm like for bad timing." He joined them at the table. "Aren't you going to thank me?" Harry pulled a face at her. Ginny mulled this over, and blew him a kiss.

"Tell you what, Harry," she tossed her head. "I'll give this a bit of a trial run tonight. If it keeps me alive, then I'm sure I'll think of some way of thanking you." She winked.

"Everyone ready?" Harry asked, after returning the wink with a stare of great and fraudulent innocence. "We don't know what things are like through there- and we're up against Dementors, so watch each other's backs, and wands out... now!" Drawing their wands, the first syllable of the appropriate charm already on their lips, the quartet touched the Portkey as one, and disappeared.

* * *

"For pity's saaaaaaa..." The old woman's voice dissolved into a terrible, gurgling scream as the red light flashed around the letter box again. 

"Vernon... we can't just..." Petunia's breath was coming in great ragged jerks as she stood before him in the hall, her soapy-gloved hands wringing themselves helplessly. The floorboards shuddered and groaned from colossal strain overhead. Dudley's head appeared at the top of the stairs, as Mrs Figg screamed again, and a dark voice exulted in twisted delight.

"Dad? What's going on?"

Vernon looked wildly around.

"I won't have it, you hear!" He slammed one massive fist against the inside of the door, making it shiver in its frame. The lights flickered in time with the ululating note of Arabella Figg's scream. Petunia half-moved towards the door, then stopped, seeing murderous terror in her husband's eyes. "I won't have this family's good name dragged through the gutter, won't have them dragging us into the weirdness and perversion..."

"Vernon, we can't just leave her out there to die..."

"Who d'you think she is, anyway, woman? She's one of _them_! I spoke to her in the street, damnation take it! And all the time..."

"Heeeeelppp meeee!""" A vicious crack of power made the air shudder, and the old woman's screams became a low, tremulous moan.

"But Vernon..."

"Dad?" Dudley's eyes were wide, his skin pale. "Why don't they stop? Why won't they just leave us alone?"

Blast it, why _wouldn't_ they just leave him alone? He remembered the boy, Potter, remembered Potter attacking him. You take them in, you let them into your house, show them kindness... and they turn on you.

Vernon took a long, deep, calming breath. That was better. This was his house. He'd read about them. Werewolves, or vampires, or some such. They couldn't come in unless you invited them, could they. Very well then. This was not their world. The scream rose again.

"Dudley, sitting room, now!" he put his hands on hips, shouting over Mrs Figg's agony. "Turn the television up. I will NOT have this. This is a normal, nice, normal house," he turned, shouting at the letterbox. "WE DON'T WANT YOU!"

Dudley darted into the sitting room, cringing back from the front door, and running for the television. As Vernon slammed home the door bolts and moved to follow, Petunia half-reached for the lock. Nostrils flaring, he slapped her hand away.

"Vernon, you can't do this!"

"I'm warning you, Petunia," he told her, keeping his voice very reasonable. Very proud of himself, he ought to be, he decided. He'd seen what was best for his family, after all. "Think about Dudley. Think about us! This isn't our business!" Her hand still faltered. With a curse, Vernon snatched the key from the lock. It was lucky he'd had that old Yale lock replaced, what with that spate of burglaries there'd been last summer in the town. Of course, they'd all come to an end soon after the school holidays had ended, but still, he hadn't wanted to risk anything. Not with young Dudley at home and everything. Yes, he reflected, as the old woman's fingers clawed at the paintwork outside, and he firmly put the key in his pocket. It was all for the best.

"It's nothing to do with us! That's an end of it!"

"Hear me, Dursleys," he froze, as the other voice, the younger, gloating one, rose in delight. "Hear the song I shall have her sing for you! Crucio!"

Vernon bit his lip, as the screams redoubled again, and the old woman's heels began to drum, a hideous spasmodic tattoo-beat on the flagstones of his new path.

"Dudley... turn that television up--- good boy!" his face scarlet, eyes darting to and fro, the veins in his neck twitching, he barged past his wife into the sitting room, checking his pocket.

Petunia half-reached for the doorknob. Hopeless. The key was gone. She looked into the sitting room, after Vernon. Her husband sat down in the armchair, the television roaring, its sound so loud as to be felt rather than heard, shaking the walls. Yet still it did not drown out the cries from outside. Vernon Dursley flung up his newspaper, grinding his teeth, as Dudley, mewling to himself, crawled into the corner behind the chimney breast.

She reached for the doorknob again- and her hand fell back. What was there to do? Not her world. Not her business. She looked into the sitting room again, saw her family, her nice, normal family, illuminated in the glow of the imitation log fire. Outside, in the hall, the lights flickered, but the red glow of the Cruciatus Curse burned on, blazing through the letter box and round the edges of the door. The scream went on... and the laughter. Petunia turned, eyes closed, her hands pressed to her ears, and ran up the stairs, tears streaming down her face.

* * *

George cursed, his Patronus driving one Dementor back, reeling against a shelf of Canned Pandemonium. Tins exploded with violent- and colourful- vigour, wood splintered and iron warped, but the Dementor was unaffected, and more came on, twisting round the door, shadows against the fiery night. Fred took up his own wand again, aiming from his position on the floor- but his own Patronus was reduced to little more than a silver mist, and the dark figures swept it aside. 

The twins' eyes met, and George helped Fred to his feet. All about them, the beasts drew closer. The chill washed over them- and all the colour and light of the shop seemed dull grey. George's shoulders hung. Everything was dark and empty. He lifted his head, gazing into the shadows of the nearest hood. The dark suggestion of gloomy, overcast features stared back at him- and cold crawled down his spine and through his limbs. He could feel his twin's hand on his arm, but even that was no comfort now. The six Dementors surrounded them, and all the world beyond was in darkness, as withered arms reached out...

... and the room seemed to swirl, buck and heave as reality was curtly ordered to reshape itself. Like spokes of a wheel, each holding one-handed to the hub, a battered old saucepan, four figures, unrecognisable to George's swimming eyes, stepped spinning on to this plane, turning in unison to face outwards, still circling in the centre of the room.

"Now!" a familiar voice gave the command.

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

* * *

**Author's Note and Review Responses:**

_Here comes trouble, and the 'Most Hateful Git' contest between Delores, Bellatrix, and Vernon kicks off._

**taxzombie: **No, no Horcruxes here. Largely because I still haven't read HBP. I'm waiting until the spoilers I've heard about the ending have receded into my subconscious a bit. :-) As for Severus Snape... I am intending to go into why he's such a total smeghead, probably sometime this term. Once the truth starts to come out about Florence, Snape's own secrets won't remain hidden for that long. Expect to see a slightly colder side of Harry, when that happens, too. The darkness will continue for some time- but now, at least, Harry's facing it, rather than drowning in it.

**Dark-Dragon-Chick: **Ah, Milner, I remember him. With any luck, one day I'll get this motley crew back to Hogwarts for a new term, and he can appear again. :-) Ideally the ETA in Scotland is not more than two chapters away.

**Wolf's Scream: **Poor old Ronniekins. I'm afraid it's more or less his lot in life to be surrounded with forceful women beating him over the head for being tactless. As for Florence Lovegood... all will be revealed. There is a fairly famous real-world equivalent to her role in the war and after, whose name I shan't mention as it would give things away a little bit too much. Feel free to guess, though.

**Togepi: **Glad you're enjoying the story, and like what I've been doing to the characters. The layers of mystery are all more or less in place now- it's just the unravelling to come. Hopefully that'll work. I must admit, I do enjoy the Harry/Ginny sequences- and was at pains to avoid the whole 'secretly in love' angle. For one thing, because in Ginny's case it's hardly a secret, and for another, because Harry manifestly wasn't. Besides, it's more fun to take the journey with them. I fear, however, that for Ginny's brother, the course of true love will be rather rockier. To put it mildly.

**Erised Burning: **Thank you for a well-thought out and insightful review. You raise a number of points which have given me some interesting food for thought. The whole Harry/Ginny vs. Harry, Ron, Hermione shift of balance is intentional, actually- and not just because of the love story aspect. The point about Ginny- which seems to me to be set up in OotP, is that she's the one person who actually does know how Harry feels- thus, even before the romance element becomes dominant in them, they work well together, professionally. So, yes, Ron and Hermione are feeling slightly left out. I've touched on this slightly- there's a very faint subtext in the last ten or so chapters of Harry deliberately trying to get 'quality time' in with Ron, because the Boy Who Lived is aware of this. This isn't ever going to become that dominant a theme- largely because there's too much plot to fit in as it is- but indirectly, it is going to have a slight effect on a couple of characters. As to the 'saccharine unity'- well, I wouldn't describe it that way myself, but I do see what you mean, yes. Their friendships are very strong- because they have to be strong. If they broke down as a group, the consequences would be very bad indeed- and at the moment, they're strong enough to pull together. I can see how that might not be entirely to your taste, though. The Dursleys are fun to write, I admit- because they don't have all the reserve of experience and of necessity that Harry and the others have brought up. They are afraid- and that is always fun to play with.

**Crazy-Physco**: And the same to you :-)


	41. I Expect A Guardian

**Chapter Forty-One:** I Expect A Guardian

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!" Four voices thundered in unison, and webs of silver light lanced across the little shop. Harry's stag Patronus reared high, and before it, two Dementors sank back, seeming to dwindle, the black shadow receding in the glare of the light. Nearly as luminous, though less well defined, Ginny's guardian-spell, a blazing creature of painful brightness swept across the opposite side of the room. Ron and Hermione, each opposing between the other two, dropped to one knee, sending their own Patroni- Ron's still a shapeless web, but glowing brighter than ever before, Hermione's, like Ginny's, beginning now to take shape, whirling about the room. Light and shade flashed across their faces, and from the cloaked ghouls' withered, hidden throats went up a hoarse cry of pain as they fell back into the dark. Ron ran forward, going to his elder brothers' side. Now only two of the shadow-creatures remained- one penned against the far wall, creeping into the shadows behind the fireplace, the other pausing for a moment, hissing in defiance, before Hermione and Ginny's Patroni drove it, tattered and fading, from the door.

"You two all right?" Ron shook George's shoulder. The slightly dazed twin nodded, and glanced at Fred. Fred, blood running freely from a cut on the side of his head, grinned regardless through bloody lips.

"Nice son-et-lumiere, Ron. Could have done with a few more explosions though."

Hermione moved to the torn-open doorframe, jumping back from the burning rain and hastily erecting a shield charm, as Ginny moved to Harry's side. Wordlessly, the two advanced on the remaining Dementor.

"Fear." Harry kept his wand levelled on the thing. "That's what you are, isn't it? Just fear and hunger. No form, no substance... just dark magic cast into rotten flesh."

The dark shape writhed, broiling in a heady aura of shadow. It started to slip to one side- and Ginny's wand flashed, her own Patronus leaping forth once more, a burning shape like a mighty talon, strong in sinew, for a moment becoming distinct. The Dementor shrank back from it- and on the other side, Harry's stag reared rampant.

"A boggart once took your form for me, you know." Harry moved closer to the demon, his face white, expressionless. "I was told that meant that my worst fear was fear itself."

Outside, Aurors and Death Eaters fought desperately. More Aurors were running down the road- presumably a few having deserted their posts further up the street, having heard and seen the signs of chaos- but still they were outnumbered, and everywhere the Dementors reared, sapping the will to fight, and feasting upon the souls of the fallen.

"That's his greatest weapon," Ginny's face was twisted with revulsion as she looked at the thing, its splay-clawed hands spread flat against the wall behind it, hooded face thrust forward. "He eats and drinks it. Takes away his name so that people are afraid to even admit that he exists. He doesn't kill his enemies- he kills the people they love, so people daren't fight him. In the end, that's all he is."

Harry touched his hand to his temple. His hair had been brushed aside in the tumbling flight of the Portkey, and the lightning bolt of his scar was plain upon his forehead.

"My fears are up here." He shook his head. "They're powerful enough- but you... you're just a reflection, aren't you?" With a flash of his eyes, he twisted his wand, the stag looming closer over the trapped Dementor. "Nothing but a shapeless parasite... an empty leech, a withered bag of skin biting at us for sustenance... YOU ARE EMPTY!"

His wand lashed down, blazing silver light. Two Patroni reared forward- and faded as they touched, a thin and whistling cry blowing away on the wind... and an empty, tattered cape fell to the floor, crumbling and rotting before their eyes.

Hermione's breath caught. Outside... the battle raged on- but it was as though the pain of one Dementor had spread amongst them all. They drew back- even from their deadly kiss itself, a high and painful shriek bursting forth from lipless mouths.

"They're a communal entity..." she breathed, her eyes darting forth between Harry and Ginny, both breathing heavily, and the mayhem in the street outside. The Death Eaters seemed to have realised that something had befallen their dark companions, and were spreading out, green and red flashes of magic flying through the air as they sought to outflank their opponents in the road's centre. Shields flared up, as the Aurors retrenched.

Ron joined her at the door.

"Won't stop them for long. They're trying to do a fork. Those Aurors are still in trouble-"

The Death Eaters spun, as one, wands casting fiery trails through the air.

"INCENDIO!"

"What the hell--!" It hit them like a hot wave, the air scalding. Hermione twisted round, grabbing Ron around the waist and rugby-tackling him away from the door. Ginny flung up a shield around them, its hue stronger and darker than the norm, and she and Harry both staggered, bracing themselves against the blast. Glass bottles- potions, tinctures, poisons, fruit-juice and the bottle of goat urine that Ginny had been avoiding asking her brothers about for several months exploded, shards flying- some outside the shield, some within. Flames licked up along the wooden beams.

"Everyone out- now!" Harry led them forward, Ron and George half-carrying Fred. Part of the ceiling crumbled, the plaster falling in burning chunks. Ginny, last of the group, dived through the doorway as the lintel cracked and gave way.

"Expelliarmus!" Harry's spell blasted a Death Eater's wand from his hand. The figure dived for his lost wand- and tumbled in an impediment jinx from Hermione, crashing head-down on to the pavement. Fire raged up and down the street, vision wavering in the roaring flames on either side. Two more Aurors fell to Killing Curses as they rose up, abandoning their shields to try to fight the fire.

"Captivia Incanus!" Ginny's wand flashed in the air, and the angry violet of an inverted shield encased another Death Eater, who writhed in pain, dull red energy burning in his fingers. "Petrificus Totalis!" she followed, sending him crashing to the ground as the capture charm faded, even as a Patronus Charm from Ron saved her from a Dementor, rising up from the ground behind her.

"They're starting to recover--!" he shouted.

"Expecto Patronum!" Harry swept his wand in a wide circle. "Come on!"

They started across the street towards the Auror group- who, seeing the six youngsters, began to fight their way through the now rising tide of Dementors towards them- but then came a crash from an upstairs window. Screaming, her clothes alight, a woman leapt down from the inferno above, a young child in her arms. She landed badly, falling to the cobbles, the child twisting free- and the dark shape of a Death Eater loomed above them, seeming to come out of the flames themselves.

"Avada Kedav---"

"REDUCTO!" Harry, Ginny, Ron, Hermione, and George's wands flashed out at once, raw rage burning in their magic- and the Death Eater crashed backwards, falling on to the cobbles with a grating and cracking of broken bones falling against one another. Flames licked around his spread cloak as he lay motionless on the cobbles.

"Accio! Accio!" The woman and her son were plucked from the ground, hauled across to the Aurors.

"Over here!" The surviving leader of the Auror group put up a shield, and- still dodging Killing Curses and Dementors alike, Harry's party crossed the remaining distance.

"W-was there anyone else in there?" the Auror, a young, frightened man with a fey look in his eyes and the hideous sucker marks of a Dementor over his mouth grasped the injured woman by the shoulders, staring her into sense. She shook her head, tears in her eyes, and looked up at the blazing ruin that had been her home.

"No- no one alive."

"You two-" Constable Merton recognised Fred and George. "Take the injured- get down to Pinchmeal's Supplies- it's fireproofed. See if you can get anyone else out," he turned to two more of his troops. "S-send them along there too." He faced Harry, eyes flicking up to the boy's still exposed scar. "Is th-that all right?"

Harry stared at the man's injured mouth. Alaric wiped his charred lips, grimacing in pain.

"I reckon I'd nearly had it. They just seemed to go mad for a second, and it... let me go. Lucky. I guess I owe it to... someone not to mess up again. But I don't know what to do..."

Metal buckled beneath their feet, a manhole cover torn apart and melting as fire geysered up from beneath. Ginny flung Harry and Alaric back, herself only drawn behind Harry's hastily erected shield just in time. Killing Curses flashed through the air.

"Not standing around like sitting ducks would help!" she yelled, somewhat nonsensically.

"Split up!" Harry shouted. "Keep in pairs- one to shield, one to curse!" The rain lashed down, raising stinging red sores on exposed skin- but almost ignored now, amid the heat of the flame and the wounds of battle. "Gin- I said watch my back- now's the time! The rest of you, those that can fight try to cover those that can't! Get everyone out that you can, and keep heading south! And you-" he singled out the young Constable- "Get to the Ministry if you can- I don't care if you have to personally hit Umbridge with every hex in the book, get reinforcements!" They dived away, the Aurors following the order- the only possible course of action. Ron and Hermione went together, standing point with two Aurors as George and Fred blasted away the front walls of shops and houses alike, Summoning and shouting for survivors. Harry caught a moment's sight of either one of Flourish or Blott- he had never been entirely sure which, and was no more certain now, amid the fire and shadow, brandishing a burning book and casting something extremely unpleasant on a Death Eater- but then the wall of flame and smoke was between them and the rest.

"Well, Mr Potter," Ginny stood back to back with him, as they circled warily along. "If this is your idea of a birthday treat, I'd hate to see what you've got planned for my end-of-NEWTs party."

"Ron's right- I'll probably be teaching Dark Arts by then, if things don't let up." Harry nudged her with one shoulder blade.

"I think you mean 'Defence Against The Dark Arts'."

"Do I?" Harry slipped his free hand behind himself and under her coat, and tickled the small of her back where her shirt had ridden up slightly in the battle.

Ginny turned, an exclamation on her lips, Harry turning to meet her. Both sets of eyes widened, as Dementors closed on them, appearing suddenly out of the flames to either side. Each jerked forward, face to face, wands flung out over the other's shoulder. Two Patroni reared. Two Dementors fell back. Two sets of lips met. Ginny, after a second, lifted her eyebrows, pulling back.

"All right, maybe not. Dark Arts it is. More fun."

"How's the wand, by the way?" Harry enquired, as they started forward again. The sight of it in battle had stirred an ugly thought in his mind. There was more at stake here than just escape. The Death Eaters had attacked here for a reason. He had to get to Ollivander's shop.

"It's growing on me, Mr Potter. I think I'll be able to use it." A hanging sign dislodged from its bracket and dropped towards Harry's head. With a sudden jerk of her wand arm, Ginny sent it spinning off to one side.

"I'm _so _glad." Harry gave her a tired grin.

* * *

Petunia ran upstairs. There was no clear idea in her head then- simply to be away- away from the awful sound of pain and death to follow- except that there was no escape from that. Away from the terrible face and voice of her husband. 

_Not our world! Not our world! Go away!_

Why wouldn't it go away? Why did the horror pursue them? The boy. Potter. If only he had never... if only Lily had never...

_If only Lily had never been one of them, my David would still be alive. Why couldn't they save him? Why did they save her first?_

"Because she was their own kind? Is that what I thought? She was _my_ sister! Not our world?" Petunia Dursley froze, one foot on the top step, one on the landing, and it seemed to her that fingers of ice touched her scalp, pooling and flowing over her shoulders and back. "Not my world?"

The screaming began again. She heard the other's voice- the Death Eater- exulting.

"Not our business?" Her voice cracked- and now the cold had seeped into her bones. "Not our _business_?"

"For Merlin's sake, Dursley... Help..." Mrs Figg's cry was faint, now, high and thin- and it broke off with a stifled gulp as the younger woman's voice hissed out once more:

_"Crucio!"_

The front door was locked. Vernon had the key. She knew no word that would make him return it. The back door- the same. The telephone? Who could she call?

_No one in my world. _

Petunia Dursley stood stock still, and the cries and screams drained out of her mind, until all that remained was a single, repeating beat, her breath keeping time with it. She nodded her head, just the once. Then the world returned, roaring and shrieking in her ears, and she began to move.

The door to Potter's room had not been well repaired. Vernon had disliked any talk or memory of anything that brought back the night the boy left- and had, in any case, been reluctant to risk any builder or decorator asking awkward questions about exactly what force had removed the door from its hinges and embedded it in the opposite wall. He had rehung the door himself, and now it creaked and stuck on its hinges- but Petunia did not notice the noise, or fear that her husband might hear her movements. Fear and panic soared high in her- but another passion guided her hands, as she pushed the unmade bed to one side, tugged up the loose floorboard that hid what Potter had so fondly imagined to be a secret hiding place.

Cold fury.

"Not our business? Not my business, when my sister was murdered?" her fingers fumbled numbly through the few things Harry had left behind- unimportant, forgotten leftovers, that Vernon had ordered be thrown away, but she had left, with no plan in mind then, simply an undirected defiance.

"Not my business, when her son was lain in my care?" She cursed. It had to be here. She'd seen it. She'd seen it, and remembered the name.

"Not my business, when one of our neighbours is dying out there?" There! A tiny ceramic jar, no bigger than the inkwells she'd used to use at school- oh, such a time ago. She snatched it up, along with the handful of old _Daily Prophets_ that had escaped Vernon's notice.

The lights flickered and went out, silencing the roar of the television. Somewhere in the house, there was a crash- Vernon had fallen over the occasional table in the hall.

"What're you doing up there, Petunia?" he shouted, trying to drown out the screams from outside. She felt for the jar in the darkness, found it, rose to her feet.

_Lily. You said... it doesn't need a witch's power... Years ago... I saw you, saw you throwing it on the fire, pushing your head into the flames._

_"Mum, mum, Lily's doing -it- again! You're not allowed to do that at home! Your headmaster said! I'm telling! You're doing it again!"_

_"No I'm not, idiot." Her sister tossed her hair, green eyes sparkling, and gave Petunia a grin, as if to show the insult wasn't really meant. "The Floo Powder's already enchanted. I don't have to use any more magic myself- I can do it any time I like. You could do it if you liked..." She lunged forward, tickling, pulling Petunia over towards the fireplace, pushing the little handful of powder into her hands._

_"No! Get off! Stop it! Lily, stop it! I don't want to, it's not right!"_

"Just come down here and calm down, my Pet..." Vernon was climbing the stairs, his stupid, fat, slovenly voice grating in her head. "She can't get in. This isn't anything to do with us. Let those freaks do what they want out there, we're safe in here, all right and proper, and..."

"Get out of my way!" she pushed past him on the stairs. The screaming had stopped, now- and for a moment she wondered if she was too late- and then a low whimpering began- and a peculiar drumming sound. For a moment, Petunia Dursley halted- unsure- and then Vernon's hand descended on her shoulder- whether to steady her or to stop her, she never knew- and she pulled away, running down the stairs and into the sitting room, ignoring Dudley, illuminated by the firelight and the eerie red glow from outside- and wrenched off the lid of the jar.

Dimly, she heard Vernon's footsteps behind her.

_You could do it if you liked..._

She snatched up Dudley's discarded jacket, tugging the cigarette lighter from the pocket and spreading the Potter boy's newspapers on the hearth. Dudley shouted something.

_Petunia, remember my last._

Holding the lighter to the paper, she ignited the fire, drawing back in surprise as the wizarding newspaper roared into flame.

_"Prongs was the nickname of James Potter. My 'good-for-nothing' father saved your sister's life."_

She threw a handful of powder into the flame, and sank to her knees. There was no magic in Petunia Dursley. The Dursleys wanted nothing to do with anything odd, or unnatural, or strange, thank-you-very-much. Nothing of that kind was welcome in Privet Drive. Nothing of that kind ever had been welcome in Privet Drive. There was no incantation, no spell, no curse or hex, none of any of the things she'd watched- half in terror, half in bitter envy, as Lily had learned all those years ago- but outside in the night, a human voice was crying out in pain. A witch. One of them. A freak. Petunia Dursley cast the Floo powder into the fire, and cried out.

"Harry Potter!"

"What the devil do you think you're _doing_, woman?" Vernon barked in fury and shock, seizing her by the wrist and wrenching Petunia roughly back away from the fire. Outside, the cruel voice rose in lilting song, while Mrs Figg's heels beat out a staccato rhythm on the concrete surface of Vernon's new driveway.

Mrs Dursley turned to look at her husband, a hysterical bray of a laugh breaking briefly from her lips.

"What do you _think_ I'm doing?" she shrieked back at him- staring in desperation at the fire. A few, faint, flickering sparks rose up from the Floo powder- but then it seemed to char, falling in on itself and blackening. She gave a low moan, speaking to the fire itself, begging. "No... please... Lily was my sister, that must count for something, surely...?"

"Mum..." Dudley cowered in the corner furthest from the window, behind the chimney breast. Outside, lightning flashed, and Arabella Figg screamed, her voice cracked and wheezing. Petunia twisted free of Vernon's grasp, running forward, stumbling on the hearthrug, throwing another handful of powder into the flames.

_I can't stop. There is no going back. Lily... Harry, I'm so sorry if I am too late..._

"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!" she cried out, desperately trying once more, gabbling the words and staring into the flame.

"Mum- Dad, make her stop it! Make her stop it! Make her stop it!" Dudley's fingers clawed at the wall.

"PETUNIA!" Vernon seized her shoulders. "Stop it! Not in my house!" he roared. "Not in my house! I don't know you any more... who the hell are you?"

"I'm Lily Evans' sister, Vernon Dursley! And Lily was a witch! A good, kind witch... and she's dead because of people like that thing out there," She spat, clawing at his face, "And things like you and me!" The little pot of Floo powder dropped from her hands and cracked open, the precious dust spreading across the carpet. The voices mingled, Arabella and Bellatrix, the cries of agony and jubilation mingling in one symphony of horror... and Petunia Dursley kicked out, hard, winding Vernon, scrabbling on the carpet, gathering all that she could of the powder into her hands and flinging it in one last, hopeless effort into the flames.

"_ALBUS DUMBLEDORE!"_ she screamed. "Help us!"

"Get out of my house!" Vernon roared at her, his face white, spittle running from his lips. "Just get--" he never finished the sentence- for even as Petunia's hands dropped to her sides in defeat, her last hope tried, the plea for help from Petunia Evans, sister of Lily Evans, who died for Harry Potter, spoken in the home of Harry Potter, calling out for the guardian and protector of Harry Potter, who had delivered him to that house, all those years ago, caught and writhed through the walls of Privet Drive. Dudley was flung into the centre of the room, squealing in fright as lightning flashed over each and every wall, blue and vivid, picking out bricks, portraits, old spaces where once before paintings or portraits had hung, furniture, doors, doorways... and it caught the Floo Powder too, buoying it up in the flames, flickering with life. A surge of green light rippled up, billowing out of the fire and spiralling high, burning black the pristine white ceiling in seconds... and then it was gone.

His wand in his hand, and his power burning in his eyes, Albus Dumbledore stood in the centre of the room.

* * *

"Down!" Harry pulled Ginny to one side, as a great wooden beam crashed down from the upper storey of one of the older shops, bursting into flaming splinters as it hit the ground. The two looked at each other, without a word. Harry lifted an eyebrow. Ginny wrinkled her nose at him. After all, the curse _had _got rid of the two Dementors that had ambushed them, hadn't it? Harry smiled, and shook his head resignedly. Fair enough, he supposed. The trouble was that, if you took that sort of logic to its ultimate extreme, you'd be blowing the planet up to remove Voldemort from it. 

"Everything in moderation, Harry- including wildly destructive magic," the girl voiced their thoughts- then fell silent, pointing. They had moved perhaps a hundred or so metres up the road in the last few minutes- most of it whilst attempting to fend off a pair of rather persistent Dementors. Now, amidst the smoke and flame, and the ruin of the Alley, they saw one shop still standing undamaged, its woodwork neither flaming nor charred, the glass of its windows intact. Harry exchanged a look with the witch.

"Ollivander."

Ginny nodded. Harry could see her lips moving slightly, the fingers of her left hand drifting to and fro like vegetation beneath the sea as her eyes focused on the intact shop across the road. It was a sign he was beginning to recognise, and he gave her an interrogative look.

"It feels a bit like Hogwarts," she muttered in reply. "I don't know- I don't know what a protective ward's _supposed _to feel like," she added, with a flicker of annoyance at herself- "But if that's what it is, then that's what it is."

Harry suppressed a grin, resisting the urge to point out the singularly useless nature of such a statement. Fire and battle had awakened light in both their eyes, and- notwithstanding fear and pain, Harry found a fierce thrill growing stronger in his heart. It was the song that thrummed in his ears at the height of a Quidditch match. It was the roaring, unstoppable tide that seemed to rise up behind him as he lunged for the Golden Snitch. He felt... alive. Then he remembered those that they had not managed to save, the ones the survivors had left behind, huddled shapes on the road, or within the flames, and the song of war died in his heart.

_Well, at least now I know how they get soldiers to fight. _

He turned to Ginny, as another cascade of burning rubble descended further down the street, and nodded towards Ollivanders. She tightened her grip on her wand, and stepped forward, the same grimness in her own face. How was it that Ollivander had been able to erect a protective ward in time, when no one else had? A protective ward... the thought floated through his mind as they moved forward, something nagging at him. Further down the street, the sound of voices seemed to have faded, after a brief crescendo of shouting and staccato burst of magic. Harry's wand swept to and fro in front of him as he walked, his eyes scanning the street. There- something. A human shape. He started forward- then slowed. Unmoving. She lay in the gutter, a woman perhaps a year or so older than himself, unmarked by flame, lying in front of the broken window from which she had leapt to save herself, uninjured- save for the expression of terror on her dead face. Harry looked into those eyes. How many days had been taken from her? How many hopes and dreams and fears? The boy knelt beside her, turning her head to one side, his fingers feeling for a pulse at her throat. Nothing. He rose up, the blackness rising with him. Nothing. What threat had she been, this one? None. Not an Auror. Probably pure-blooded- most of those who lived in places like Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade were, more or less. He wondered if the Death Eater who had killed her had known her name- or even cared.

"They came here to... kill. That's all." His knuckles were white about his wand. "Nothing else. They didn't want anyone to escape- she was old enough to Apparate, but they put up that ward, didn't they?"

An anti-apparition ward. What was it Ginny had said? The protective ward they'd sensed around Ollivanders felt a bit like... Hogwarts. Now there was a new song in his heart, a bleak and relentless melody. How long they'd been there? Wands? Wards? Voldemort... it was nothing. He wrenched at the door, feeling the protective charm thick and claggy on his hands. His fingers slipped from the latch, and his wand snapped up.

"Obliterata!" The spell struck the ward and sank into it, like a stone into wet sand. There was light in the shop windows- but it was not firelight. He tugged at the shop door once more, pulling hard on the big brass handle that sat proudly vertical in the middle of Ollivander's smart green door. It burned dark in him, now. Someone inside that shop had done this thing, had planned this thing for Voldemort. It was not the Dark Lord himself- the lack of pain in his head told him that much. He beat upon the door again, and struck at it with magic.

"Alohomora! Obliterata Portus! Reducto!"

"Wait." Ginny was at his side, pressing her hand against the clammy wood, her eyes narrowed. Her wand traced a pattern on the doorframe, her lips moving soundlessly.

"I'm going to kill them..." Harry hissed.

"Not if I get there first," she snarled. He cast one look at her. Her lips were white, drawn back over her teeth- and her brow furrowed in a bestial grimace. The dark beast within him saw its own reflection, and shrank back. Harry reached out.

"No." Harry's hand closed on her wrist, speaking low and fast, all the while moving with her hand, as she traced out the flux and weft of the ward upon the doors. "We swore an oath, remember. It's not just about the Unforgivable Curses, Ginny. We stop them. This shouldn't ever happen-" he glanced back at the blazing ruin of Diagon Alley. How many more bodies lay in burning buildings. How many more? The rage rose within him again, and he choked it back, "Listen, Ginny. We stop them- we kill if we have to, but not because we want to- _never_ because we want to. If we start to--"

"NOW!" Ginny's arm bucked beneath his hand, dull red light flashing out in a star from the tip- and, for a moment, Harry could see the design upon the door. A serpent, swallowing its own tail. "Reverse the spell!" the girl hissed, and her hand, in turn, clamped down on his wand arm, his wand-tip pressing against the serpent's tail, dragging through the varnish and paint of the door, scraping back along the spine of the invisible engraving, even as Ginny's wand traced the opposite path from the head. He followed her lead, feeling increasing resistance as the two wands drew closer, dragging the threads of the spell with them, entangling them, feeding them back into each other. Heat and pain flashed up his arm. Beside him, he heard the girl's breath burst out of her lungs in a grunt of pain- and their wands touched, jolting them both backwards a pace, as a dank chill passed over him, moving outwards and away. He whirled, one foot kicking hard against the door, the latch breaking. Neither of them saw, heard, or felt the dark robed figure who was momentarily silhouetted against the burning embers of the opposite house- nor saw the five floating shadows which drifted forth to cluster around him. His hood thrown back, the moon glittered on white-blonde hair, and a cruel smile touched aristocratically harsh lips.

"Stupefy!" "Expelliarmus!" They raked the shop's interior with spells as the door opened, then Harry was over the threshold, turning to one side as Ginny followed, levelling her wand in the other direction. Nothing. Slowly, behind the counter, dislodged by one or the other of their blasts of magic, an old box toppled from a shelf and fell to the floor. Oil lamps creaked and swung gently in their gymbals, making shadows dance. Harry looked at her, then glanced towards the inner doorway leading into the long aisles of shelving behind the counter.

Far away, they heard the ringing of bells, echoing queerly through the night sky and under the burning eaves.

"What's that, do you suppose?" Ginny looked at him.

"The cavalry, I hope," Harry nodded. "Even that cow Umbridge can't deny this is an emergency." He moved to the counter. "Watch the door, would you? I.." he stopped, a brief look of pain crossing his face, and crouched down. Ginny moved further into the shop, until she could see behind the counter, and looked down on Harry, gently closing the eyes of the old man who lay spreadeagled on the floor behind the counter. The expression on the face of Ramon Devlin Ollivander was nothing more than total shock. All around them, Ginny became aware of a faint, uneven rattling sound- like a caged animal, shifting in its pen- and on every shelf, she felt the magic shift. The wands were alive, and wrathful.

"Oh..." she swallowed. He had not been a pleasant man, she'd thought. An altogether too-knowing manner, and a smug polite superiority towards his customers had been his most marked quality- but he had made two wands for her, now- and, she realised with a shock, she had been expecting to find him alive. More than that- from the moment they had realised the significance of the protective ward, she had been expecting to find him both alive, and part of the conspiracy that had brought so much death to London this night. More than that. She had not thought it out- had not planned it- there had not been time, in the scant few minutes since they had caught sight of the shop- but, she realised now, she had been expecting to kill him with the wand that he had made for her. He was already dead. Bile rose in her throat, and was choked back. Later.

"I warned you..." Harry groaned, speaking to the corpse, and passed his hand across his own eyes, rising to his feet. "What ever I do... I don't seem to be able to make any difference." His head bowed, now, and the rage in his eyes died. Instinctively, she went to him, reaching out. "Why didn't he listen..."

Some small sound reached their ears at once, and he threw her back, spinning Ginny out of the path of a jagged flash of green light.

"Gin, the door!"

"Expelliarmus!" Lucius Malfoy's wand flashed in the doorway, and Harry's flew from his hand, bouncing under the counter. Immediately, the Death Eater turned, covering Ginny with his wand arm even as she levelled her own wand at him, ready for combat. "He did not listen, Potter," Lucius growled, as he stepped over the doorstep, shadows thick behind him, "...because he believed that he had already made himself safe. A fatal mistake. The Dark Lord does not forgive such errors of judgement."

* * *

When they had been separated from Harry and Ginny, Ron had wanted to go back- but Hermione had forestalled him. 

"Ginny's quite capable of looking after herself, Ron- look out!" A clutch of Dementors seemed to form out of the very smoke itself, boiling from an old, dark shop front, hands reaching forth.

"Expecto Patronum!" Ron tried to push her away. "'Mione, get back with George and the others, you'll be safer--"

"Expecto Patronum!" Hermione's Patronus joined his. "Ron, for once in your life, will you do as you're told! If we split up now we'll both be dead!" She turned. Already they had lost sight of the others in the flames. An Auror flashed across their path in the distance, wand held high, warding off some unseen hex- but then he was lost, behind a billowing cloud of smoke. In the distance, she could hear voices shouting. Somewhere to the south was the Leaky Cauldron, and Pinchmeal's shop, where the civilians were being evacuated. Somewhere to the north were Harry and Ginny. Somewhere were- even if her mathematics was erring on the generous side, at least three Dementors and several Death Eaters. She and Ron were alone in the smoke and the fire. She looked up. Above, though palls of smoke loomed on either side, the sky was clear. The rain had stopped, the cloud broken up and dispersed by the very magic that had turned it into a weapon. Stars shone.

"All right!" Ron took her hand. "Come on! Quick, before those things regroup again," he paused, wand flashing to left and right as they passed a dark alleyway. We've got to--"

"We need to keep moving. Only stop when we have to- stop looking for things to fight, Ron, and come on!"

"Why can't I _ever_ get a sentence finished when you lot are around," Ron glared. "I'm not looking for a fight, I'm looking for not getting shot in the back, Hermione-- look out!"

A black shape detached from the shadows in the alleyway.

"Expecto--" he stopped, as a human hand appeared at the end of the cloak's sleeve. "Stupefy!"

"Protegio!" The figure flung up its shield charm, and pushed back her hood. "Wotcher, you two. Where've the other two got to, then?"

"Tonks!" Ron grinned, then added, "Where the hell have you been?"

"On holiday, where'd you think?" Her hair, black for inconspicuousness, lightened to a close approximation of Weasley-red by way of salutation. She pulled them both back against the wall, as another figure emerged from the smoke- then relaxed, as the outline became clearer. "Kingsley!"

"Tonks!" the tall Auror waved. "Been looking for you."

"Sorry!" she gave a lop-sided grin. "Fine time I pick for a Christmas pub-crawl. Woke up in a skip on the Isle of Wight this afternoon with about thirty angry owls hooting at me. What's the situation?"

"Utter chaos." Shacklebolt's face was bleak. "Looks as though we managed to get most people out- but there are casualties. There'd have been a lot more if someone hadn't organised that useless bunch Umbridge put on guard duty." He looked round grimly.

"That'd be Harry," Ron supplied, with a weak chuckle. Tonks gave a slight start, and then grinned at Shacklebolt.

"What did I tell you last Autumn? That boy'll be after your job in a few years, I'm telling you."

"I've got a feeling someone's after it right now," Shacklebolt rejoined thoughtfully. More Aurors were beginning to appear through the smoke, eyes watchful, sweeping their field of view with raised wands as they moved. A few dissipation charms began to clear the smoke, and others started to extinguish the flames.

"You got Umbridge to send more troops in, then?" Hermione asked. The dark-skinned man shook his head.

"Emergency field order. I took them from guard duty at the Ministry. I've got authority to do it- if I can justify it later." He grimaced. "If young Merton sticks to his guns I shouldn't have any problems about it- but looks like keeping my involvement with you lot a secret's probably gone out of the window. Still- I didn't exactly have much choice." He turned, ordering the Aurors to begin searching the houses and shops as they moved along. "We'd better find Harry."

"I think he was making for Ollivander's." Ron glanced up at Tonks. "Did Fred and George make it to Pinchmeal's OK?"

Tonks frowned, and glanced at Kingsley, who nodded.

"They'll be fine. I just hope Mr Potter and Miss Weasley are all right."

"They can look after themselves," Ron started, proudly, but Tonks turned a pale face in his direction.

"Haven't you noticed? As soon as we turned up, the Dementors all made themselves very scarce. They're not exactly inconspicuous, Ron- so where have they gone?" Ron caught his breath, following her gaze northward, through the dying fire.

* * *

Bellatrix pushed back her hood, pulling the mask from her face. Let them know her. Let them speak her name. So many windows in the dark street, eyes reflecting streetlamp and starlight and curselight- and how many windows held a frightened, whimpering face? Let them know her. 

She leant forward eagerly, holding her wand, roaring and gushing with power, low beneath her chin, her eyes bright as she gazed along it. Before her, the old crone lay, limbs dancing in ecstatic parody to her tune. A faint, tuneless, wistful hum escaped the Death Eater's moistened lips, and her tongue ran across them.

"Oh, so much..." She withdrew the gift of Cruciatus, purring to herself. She had learned. This was to be a work of art, the weakest of the Order to be fashioned into her signature upon the very doorstep of their foe. That was the truth as her Lord had spoken it. While London burned, and the Wizarding World learned the fate of those who celebrated traitors, like the Potter boy, this was to be a personal message, to him alone.

It was not perfect, of course. She allowed a faint moue of regret to twist her features as Arabella Figg, choking and crawling in the dirt, clawed her mind back, her aching body still wracked with the aftershocks of pain. Far better, of course, if the Weasley child had lain here- or the mudblood girl- but they were far away, and under guard. Of course, they could have been taken, if there were need- nothing was beyond her Lord's might- but it was more elegant that Potter should not see the gift, until it was full wrought. Bellatrix stroked one hand across her robed body, her eyes drinking in the waning agony, and lashed her wand across the fallen Squib once more.

"Cruci--"

"Stop this, Bella." The door was open- without sound, without movement- and there he stood, robed in ebony, like herself, but taller, stronger-seeming for all his age- and the look in his eyes, the look which infuriated her, stole in a second the sweet taste of her work and turned it bitter in her mouth- was not wrath, but pity, and sorrow.

"Stop?" she hissed. "It is not yours to command, old man. Your day is waning. All have seen that."

Dumbledore sighed, heavily, and scratched at an itch behind his ear, stepping forward a pace. His wand was in his right hand, and, the itch attended to, he stooped, wand still drawn, and felt for Arabella Figg's pulse with his left hand.

"Even the evening light may guide a lost traveller home before it fails." He found a pulse, and relief showed clear on his lined face. Still keeping his wand trained on her, he laid his other hand flat across the old woman's temple, his bearded lips moving soundlessly with charms of rest and healing. "Come home, Bella. Come back. You were not always as you are now."

"Come back?" she laughed in his face, her voice filling with scorn and derision. She had seen the concern in his eyes when he looked at the fallen Squib. "Come home? To what? To weakness and despair? To the foolish justice of those who have never known the joy I bathe in? How can they judge me?" She shook her head, "Have they ever felt the beautiful delight of my rapture? They cannot know me. No, old fool. What I was once was not me. I have become my true self." She saw the pain grow in his eyes, and laughed again, light and girlishly. "Believe it or not as you wish- but if you will not accept my truth- then you deny what is real, and live in a dream."

Dumbledore drew back, rising upright. It was the starlight- Bellatrix saw it quite all of a sudden, and ice touched her heart. It was the starlight that reflected in the old man's eyes. There was no kindly twinkle there.

"I accept what you say of yourself- and I am very sorry."

"Sorry?" she rattled the word loose from her throat in sudden anger.

"Yes, Bella," Dumbledore shook his head, and a tear stood in the wrinkled corner of one clear, blue eye. "For you have gone too far down a path too narrow and winding... and I cannot think that you will ever find sunlight again- but," he looked her in the eyes a final time, "I remember a little girl once, who laughed and ran with the rest, and knew a happiness far more honest, and joyous than any that you remember now... and I grieve for her." So saying, his stance twisted, his wand raised high, and his voice was like thunder, unyielding and without mercy.

"OBLITERATA TOTALIS!"

The wand swept down, blazing white light surging from it as Bellatrix screamed, falling back into nothingness.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

This wasn't originally intended to be a cliffhanger- but since the original Chapter Forty One spanned twenty-three pages in document form, and was around eleven thousand words, I decided for consistency's sake with the other chapters, not to mention to avoid overly taxing the endurance of the reader, that it'd be wise to split it- and this seemed like a nice, unusual sort of cliffhanger. Villains in Trouble (At The End of Part Three) is a cliffhanger sub-genre that a few long-time Doctor Who fans in the audience might recognise. :-)

**Review Responses: **

**Erised Burning: **That's more or less exactly what I'm trying to suggest, with regard to magic, yes. This will be discussed again (when I finally get the brat pack back to school), since it's fairly crucial to Milner's back story, and the character development of another character who I shan't name, but it's become fairly obvious now- that, as Milner sees it, all the neat, academic little spell-labellings and nicely controlled uses of magic are there, not because they're what magic is, but because they're how the human mind pins down magic enough to be able to control it safely. Or fairly safely. The flip side, of that, of course, is that if you get someone who's brave, or desperate, or determined foolhardy enough to step outside the safety net, then that more fundamental approach to magic almost automatically gives them a fairly lethal edge in combat. If they don't incinerate themselves in the process.

As for Lupin- well, the same applies- I did want to dirty up the edges a little. The way I'm treating it, is that the lunar cycle, like magical power, waxes and wanes- so, for a healthy, sane, and uninjured werewolf, the only time the power becomes irresistable is at the full- but, if you lower the resistance of the subject, then they start to become in danger for a longer period of time. Lupin wasn't actually in as much risk as he thought he was- but then there's also a psychological factor- if you feel yourself starting to go, it becomes harder and harder to hold out against it, so yes, he could have 'gone wolf' that night. It was a very remote risk, but it was there.

I think I'll let you assimilate Petunia and company's actions from this chapter before I say anything further about your comments on the Dursleys- except that yes, I deliberately avoided making them religious, because that seemed to me far too easy a road to go down. Everyone finds his or her own reason to step into the dark.

**XinnLajgin: **Oh, I've barely started on Vernon and Dudley. Vernon's going to feel a draught in Chapter Forty-Three, for a start- and then they'll get a little break. In more or less the same way that Bellatrix gives Mrs Figg a little break from the Cruciatus Curse.

**David305: **I fear further excursions into Weasley's Wizard Wheezes will have to be delayed until the twins have rebuilt it. However, I'm sure they'll want some new products to sell for the grand re-opening.


	42. Those That He Shall Fear

**Chapter Forty-Two:** Those That He Shall Fear

Treading carefully, Harry moved out from behind the counter of Ollivander's Wand Emporium (deceased). Lucius' eyes flickered, following his movements. Ginny's wand hand moved slightly, and the eyes snapped back, Malfoy's wand lifting in response. The dark shadows filled the door now, and grey, near-skeletal hands groped at the doorframe. Now he too could hear the trembling of the wands, as they rattled in their boxes and cases- yet, impotent, their master already dead.

"So... I'm assuming the Marvellous Marvolo's already finished his late Christmas shopping then?" the Boy Who Lived asked lightly, stepping in front of the counter. He'd caught sight of his own wand as he moved, lying in a corner. It would be the work of a second to summon it to his hand. Unfortunately, it would also only be the work of a second for Lucius Malfoy to kill him as he retrieved his wand.

The Death Eater nodded, a slight tightening of the skin around his eyes the only reaction to the mockery of his master's name.

"You were far too late, Potter," Malfoy's brows arched. "As I said- the old fool would not listen to you- because he already believed himself to be safe. By the time you spoke to him, two suns had already set since he rendered unto me that which is the rightful property of the Dark Lord."

"To you?" Ginny frowned, taking a step to one side as she spoke, moving away from Harry and the corner where his wand lay. "In disguise, I suppose?"

"A simple polyjuice potion," Lucius retorted, a trace of bitterness marring his features for a moment. His eyes started to flick back to Harry, and Ginny quickly snapped back;

"Hurts, doesn't it? Having to skulk in the shadows- when you think of what you used to be- before you sold yourself to him." Harry shifted his weight closer to the wand.

"So you killed him." Harry said, flatly, drawing Malfoy's attention back as Ginny again widened the distance by another hair's breadth, widened the angle Lucius was forced to cover between the two of them. The Death Eater's eyes glittered.

"We have what we wanted from him- oh, do not hate him over much," he added, seeing the darkness in Harry's eyes. "Ramon Ollivander was a man of traditions, of strong heritage and bloodline. He knew the way that things should be done- and what he gave to my Lord was, in turn, given to him in trust at the time of the Schism of Founders- to be returned to the Heir of Slytherin when he should arise to claim it."

"Salazar Slytherin's wand?" Harry breathed. Malfoy nodded.

"I tell you this- for should you live out beyond this day, you will know that what rises against you now is not merely one Dark Lord, but the force of history itself. You speak of skulking in shadows-" his wand swept back to point at Ginny, and now the anger- and the madness- was plain in his face, "You who are _nothing_! A pitiful blood-traitor brat and the mudblood orphan that debauches himself with you in the fetid reek! Once our kin bestrode the land, lived like gods to these Muggle rabble... and lived out lives beyond measure." Malfoy turned his eye back to Harry. "But then we have these so-called 'modern times'- and the _stink_ and corruption of dirty blood stains us all. Lives shorten. Powers grow less. We diminish, shrinking and withering into shadows of ourselves... but the Dark Lord shall change all that. He shall purify this world, and purify our souls, and he... we shall go on! Stronger... longer lasting..."

"Thicker and more absorbent." Harry waited, as incredulous wrath sank into the tall man's haughty face. "You just don't get it, do you?" He indicated Ollivander's corpse with a sweep of one arm. "What about him? Pure blooded- loyal to the old ways... " his voice rose in sudden anger, "He gave you what you want, for gods' sake, and you killed him! Why? Because Voldemort told you to? What about all the people out there? Were they mudbloods? Do you even know? No. Just- because he told you to."

"War demands sacrifice." Lucius sneered. "The future calls to us... and we shall sing such songs of glory that dreams are made of. Fire will cleanse the world, and some wheat must perish with the chaff- but what survives will be so strong..."

"That's rubbish," Ginny snapped, "... and you know it, _Mr_ Malfoy. This isn't about purebloods and halfbloods. Don't you see? I've heard that voice in my head- thanks to you. Kill the mudbloods. Kill them, because I'm scared of dying. Kill them, because I'm weak and afraid." She stepped forward. "Tom Riddle. Not him- his father. He was a Muggle. Your Dark Lord's a half-blood... and because of that, he thinks he's weak, thinks that's why he's going to die. So he wants to purify the bloodlines, somehow- I don't know- atone for it, make himself pure... but it's impossible. No wizard was ever immortal."

"Today's history has not yet been written, Miss Weasley."

"Where's he going to stop!" Harry thundered. "With the Muggleborns? He's already gone beyond _that_, hasn't he? Purebloods have died as well..."

"Those whose hearts support the filth are themselves filthy. They dirty their own blood by their allegiance."

"Oh look, so he can kill some more. That's lucky, isn't it?" Harry stepped forward. "It never stops, Malfoy. First he'll come for us... then he'll come for others... how long before he comes for you? What about Draco, Lucius? What about him? How'd it feel, being ordered to kill your own son?"

"I..." For the first time, something flickered in Lucius Malfoy's eyes- but only for a moment. A cruel smile spread across his face, a sly leer of overweening self-confidence. "My Lord tests my allegiance, and my belief wisely. For what need have I of an heir, I who shall live on in my own flesh?"

"He doesn't 'test' anything you... stupid... idiotic man!" Ginny lunged forward- only to be brought up short as Lucius' wand whirled back to cover her. "It's not about that! It's just... hate, hate and fear. Anyone and anything... anyone he can see as a threat to him- he'll destroy them. He doesn't have allies, or friends. All right, maybe you're right down the list, near the bottom, because you're spineless enough to work for him, but he'll come for you one day- it's all the same list, Malfoy!"

There was a moment's silence. Slowly, Lucius arched one white-blonde eyebrow.

"Time will tell, Miss Weasley. For now..." Harry saw the intent turn flat in his eyes, and flung out his hand for his wand, casting the Summoning Spell even as he leapt forward to thrust Ginny out of the curse's path.

"CRUCIO!" Malfoy raised the wand high, then lashed it down, like one cracking a whip- and red fire crashed across Harry's vision- he heard the scream in his mind- and fell wide, staggering and falling under the weight of the curse as it passed on, and Ginny screamed. Fighting it clear of his head, Harry snatched up his wand- fallen close by his hand as the Cruciatus had interrupted his Summoning Charm- but even as Lucius Malfoy advanced on Ginny, clearing the doorway, a black tide poured in about him, hoods falling back, terrible faces cast into relief in the yellow oil-light. They reached for him, cursing and hissing in harsh, croaking voices.

"And now my Dementors have a score they wish to settle with you!" Lucius laughed, exultantly.

Harry froze- torn- but the Dementors were between him and Malfoy now- between him and Ginny.

"Expecto Patronum!" he roared- but nothing but a fine silver mist emerged. For a moment, the dark shapes wavered- but then swept it aside. The sight of Ginny's pain filled his mind, numbing all thought.

"Crucio!" Malfoy redoubled the spell- but, over the rising tide of Dementors, Harry saw Ginny's eyes narrow through the red haze of pain, and her wand struck out. A curse, mumbled and twisted through her cramped and pain-wracked body, burst forth, a blue nimbus striking Malfoy and twisting him back. The red light of Cruciatus flickered and died. Ginny faced him, rising to her feet, a thin trickle of blood coming from the corner of her mouth.

"You _bastard,_" she hissed at Lucius Malfoy. Harry rocked back on his heels.

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

"Harry, your Patronus is stronger than mine!" Ginny's shield charm dispelled a bone-shattering jinx, and she dived behind the counter as the Avada Kedavra scorched itself into the wood. "You handle the Dementors... _I've_ got a score to settle with Lucius Malfoy!"

"You? Blood-traitor brat? What miserable claim do you have to put before me?" Malfoy snarled, stepping forward, wand held high. Three more Dementors crept in through the open door. Harry's stag faltered, rearing high- but thinning, the spell's power almost gone. His eyes flicked around the room. He could feel the dread, the dank cold creeping into his spine. The creatures drifted like shadows towards the counter, towards Ginny's fear.

_We're going to die in here. Even if Ginny can beat Malfoy's dad. I won't be able to stop them, and we'll die. _

Cold resolve met cold fear, and held it at bay. He roared out the Charm again, and the Stag arced over Ginny's head, sweeping back the foe.

Behind the counter, Ginny snarled,

"Just a little matter of a diary! Well, here's something for you! Vios Malfoy!" Wood cracked and snapped, iron flanges and bolts sheared through, and the great oak counter, spilling wands and ledgers from its innermost drawers as it spun, flew through the air, shattering against Malfoy's shield and knocking him backwards.

A reductor curse from the now bleeding Lucius sent Ginny flying into the wall- but a shield charm protected her from the impact, and another spell lashed back. Ollivander's body, flung through the air by Malfoy's curse, impacted against a tall block of shelving, and tumbled to the ground in a pile of limbs. Harry moved, casting his Patronus again, but holding back something of his strength.

_Moony, Padfoot, and Prongs. You saved my mother's life before I was born. Lily Evans saved my life. _

He rolled against the wall. Fire billowed forth from Lucius' wand, to be met by a blast of solid ice from Ginny. The girl was backed against the wall now, though, the Dementors rearing at Malfoy's back, spreading out on either flank. She cast a quick, questioning look at Harry.

_And you remember every wand you have ever made._

Harry took the old man's wrist, and pressed the dead fingers around his own wand.

_And they will not suffer any harm to come to you in this place. Except that's not right... because you're dead._

He felt the dread on him again- but did not stop his work, nor his train of thought. Close by him, now, he saw Ginny sag against the wall- not wounded, but despairing, her arm falling back to her side.

_Dementors. They sap the will- and a wand is nothing without a wizard. That was your mistake. You never really realised that- but, with a wizard, or even the memory of a wizard, a wand is alive... and I can hear their anger. They could not defend you- because you had no strength to give them, by the time the Death Eaters came... _

Cold hands, grey skin touched his face, lifting it. Fetid breath blew into his mouth. There were too many. One wizard alone- even two Patroni would not be enough. Ten, perhaps twenty. Only Lucius seemed immune- some dark enchantment of Voldemort, perhaps. It didn't matter. Not now. The Dementor's face lowered to his own- and Harry's grip tightened around Ollivander's dead hand, clenched around Harry's wand, as his own neck went rigid, shouting out the charm into the face of the demon.

_Avenge your master._

**"EXPECTO PATRONUM FINALIS!"**

There was no Patronus. Even as the words left his throat, ice and agony flung him back against the plaster, cracking behind his head. Fire burst from every shelf, red and orange and every colour of the rainbow as boxes burst into flame- and then his vision was painted over with silver. He did not see it- but he felt it. Felt dozens of points of dim, second-hand awareness. Memories. Not alive, like the second-self, the shadow of consciousness and memory that he could pluck from his mind and cast into the Pensieve. Rising up. The Maker's hand was dead. Darkness had risen. Wrath. War. He was a hundred or more tiny points of power, threaded along magical substance, their force building and writhing and intertwining. It sucked more from him. Once before, Harry had cast a spell with two wands. Now fully one-hundred and seventy-three boiled with his power. It was unsustainable- but the power of the Patronus was not magic. Like the Avada Kedavra, magic was merely the conduit for the mind itself. What rose up before the Dementors of Azkaban was not magic- but Harry Potter himself.

For one instant of frozen time, he held it. He could see, after a fashion. Could see himself, lying on the floor, slumped at Ginny's side, while she struggled, seeing the weakness in the Dementors and made one last effort, lifting her shaking wand towards Lucius. Could see Malfoy, the triumph in his face suddenly uncertain. Could see the Dementors- and he saw now not robed figures, nor yet the grey spectres beneath. Harry saw- was- magic- and saw them now with his inner vision for what he had known them to be. Hate, and grief, and loss, and pain. He fell upon them, and devoured them utterly.

Ginny sank to her knees- her wand dropping helpless from her hands as the magic rose, screaming in her ears, blazing in her eyes. She saw Lucius Malfoy, eyes wide with sudden terror, staggering back to the centre of the room, away from the whirling vortex of power that encircled the walls. The Dementors wavered- fingers grasping, then shrinking away. Ginny could feel the magic, could sense it. Images flared in her mind's eye, scorched across her vision, leaving trails of light behind.

_Warm soft dark._

_A face, looking down at me. A face impossibly big. Long red hair- green eyes. Smiling. _

_The rush of wind in hair. A tremulous echo of magic as tiny golden wings furl in one hand._

_Driving a white tooth into a black book._

_A girl- younger- her face so pale beneath her red hair, lying huddled on cold stone- stirring, coming back to life. A life saved._

_Godfather._

_"... We'll meet it together."_

_A kiss. Her own face. Rising up out of the lake together. Then faster, flying high over Hogwarts._

The Patronus rose- and it was beyond shape. Boxes burned and withered away, and on every shelf, light shone, burning silver-bright in near two hundred wand-tips as the Patronus grew, following the road called out to it by the wands' own lust for vengeance, passing through the hand of their dead master and growing, rising in strength as it wound its way through and about the wards.

"Harry..." she began- and then it fell on them. Life surged in her, her own legs kicking her away from the wall, rising to her feet, her wand lifting into her hand as she wordlessly summoned it- and even as it gave strength to her, to the Dementors, it gave death. For another long, suspended moment, they hung in the blazing tumult, writhing through more dimensions than are properly counted- and then, with a thin scream that issued from many throats but one heart, the light burst out of them, shafts tearing through withered sinew and hollowed eye, boiling up from sucker-like mouths, rending and shredding their non-flesh- until, more light than Dementor- the dark minds behind them gave up the struggle for existence and each exploded in a soundless convulsion of light.

The raw power twisted back, snapping at itself. Ginny cried out in pain as it arced across her brain- and one hundred and seventy-three wands burst, their cores aflame, their wood charring and burning to ash. She felt the wards of Ollivander's give one last, compulsive shifting heave of magic- and then die with their master. All about them, shelves and cupboards began to crumble, old wood breaking down, surrendering to the ravages of time.

Harry slumped back against the wall, weakly pulling his own undamaged wand from Ollivander's death grip. One by one, the oil-lamps flickered, and went out.

She faced Lucius across the darkening room. All about him, nothing remained of the Dementor horde but fine, silver-threaded dust. For a moment, rage surged in his eyes, and his wand arm stiffened. Ginny did not move- but the look in her eyes said everything. Very quietly, she tapped one forefinger against her own wand.

Malfoy gave a curt nod- there was no respect in that nod- at least, not to her. Perhaps to the customs of wizardry, to the norms and courtesies of the society that had once embraced him- but perhaps not.

"Another... time, I think, Miss Weasley," he grated, and flung up his hand. With a sharp crack, and a twisting of magic that they both felt, he was gone.

"I must have burnt out the anti-disapparition ward," Harry muttered, pulling himself into a sitting position. "Ouch." He rubbed his forehead vigorously. "I think I needed that brain cell."

"Just once, Harry." Ginny limped over to him. "Just once, do you think you could maybe solve a problem _without_ any sort of apocalypse?" She put a hand down. Outside, they could hear feet running, and a voice shouting.

"Who was it said they wanted to study the Patronus Charm...?" Harry groaned, reaching up to her. "You're a jinx, Gin." He grinned, and blinked, managing to focus enough to make out the blood trail from her mouth, and a cut across her forehead. "Are you all right, though?"

"They're in here!" Ron was in the doorway, shouting and running forward. He stopped, looking round at the devastation. "What in the name of bloody hell's been going on?"

"That's our Harry." Tonks leant on the doorframe. "Honestly, Harry, I'm amazed anyone in your class still has eyebrows. Or heads."

* * *

"OBLITERATA TOTALIS!" Dumbledore thundered with sudden wrath, sweeping the wand down- and Bellatrix fell back, seeming to diminish- but even as she fell, shrinking away from the spell which would have engulfed and destroyed her utterly, a mist surrounded her, a dark haze of a shield far beyond any she could govern or command.

"My Lord is my saviour and I shall be spared..." her voice dwindled like words on the wind, as the same spell that had saved her drew her away. The dark shield faded, and winked out- and with it, a great and terrible weight seemed to settle upon the old man's shoulders. He stumbled, putting out a hand to the doorframe. The Dursley's neighbour's cat howled once- and then fell silent with a strangled hiss. One by one, the streetlights and houselights of Privet Drive sputtered, and went out, a harsh tang of burnt wiring filling the air, until only one remained, that outside Number Four itself.

A high, cold laugh echoed through the still night air.

"Well met, Professor Dumbledore."

For a long moment, the Headmaster remained motionless, head bowed.

"Will you not acknowledge me?" The voice gave a dry chuckle. "You use my servants harshly, it seems, old man." He stood tall and black in the halo of the remaining streetlamp, his arms folded inside his cloak, the dreadful white face shrouded within his dark hood- and the last remnants of the night's storms died in chill and unmoving cold.

"Servants, Tom?" Dumbledore raised his head. "If you are the master, and all others your servants, then where are those you would call friends? Or are you entirely alone in your darkness?"

"Not alone, Dumbledore," the cold voice gloated. A pale hand slid forth from the black cape that enveloped his form, and red eyes glinted in that pale face. He held forth a long and slender wand.

"You mean to be my death," Dumbledore gave a faint, half smile, hiding the grief in his heart- for he knew that wand and could read enough of its recent history in Voldemort's cruel eyes to know that at least one wizard he had once known well would walk no more. "I am an old man, Tom," he shook his head slightly, his long beard moving gently beneath. "I have known pain, and I have known submission- and any who reckon themselves both old and wise must know that death is never far from them." He straightened slightly, staring the chill spectre at the gate eye to eye. "None of your Unforgivable Curses hold any especial terror for me- and I do not intend to beg or grovel." His wand lifted slightly, and he smiled again. "Do what you will- if your own courage permits you to try."

* * *

Inside Number Four, Vernon stood at the window, shaking.

"Oh my god." Vernon's jaw dropped, and he stood, frozen, staring at the dark shape out in the road. "Th-that's Thingy. He's coming for us..."

Petunia sat on the sofa, Dudley's massive form huddled into a foetal ball beside and on her knee, her hands around his shoulders. Her pulse still beat in her ears- but slow, now, measured yet still uneven. Her mouth worked, for a moment, and then she spoke, tonelessly.

"He's always been with us, Vernon. I think he always will be." Her eyes moved across the room to the mantelpiece, where a bird she could not describe- could not even admit existed, stood, his talons scoring deep grooves into the wood even as his beak crunched up some little knick-knack some friend or relative had brought back from a holiday somewhere or other. Since the old wizard had stepped out to face Bellatrix Lestrange, many little knick-knacks had been destroyed- but now that ended.

A cruel laugh echoed through the open doorway- and curled around it, slamming it closed, cutting off the old Headmaster's escape.

Fawkes spread his wings, and vanished, in a searing blast of light. This time, Vernon did not even notice, as magic once again was practiced in Number Four, Privet Drive. His mind was lost, drowning in the terror of the Dark Lord.

* * *

"Courage?" Voldemort threw back his head, forked tongue tasting the air as his hood slid back. "You fool. Do you not finally see?" The wand stretched out to one side, and carved shapes of fire upon the air. A phantom, flickering and wavering in the bitter dark. A cup- no, a bowl, gently spinning.

"You have it then?" Dumbledore nodded. "I assumed so," he murmured. "As I believe I said to poor Bella, there is a distinction between a waning of power, and a failing." He stepped forward, and the sable cloak about his shoulders slid to the ground. In robes of scarlet and orange, Dumbledore faced Voldemort.

"Fate's Crucible." Voldemort's shoulders rocked gently. "You fool... you old fool. Fool to make such a bargain. For you now gamble all your hopes upon the Boy Who Lived- and he is strong, strong, yes, yes of course he is- so very strong..." he lifted up his wand hand, bone renewed, and clenched his long fingers into a fist. "But I know the measure of the waxing of his strength, Dumbledore- and even if I do not know the words of my prophecy I may still guess _your_ mind. You think to keep him safe, to guard him until he is strong enough to strike me down?" He shook his head. "A wise strategem... but it will fail. Rest assured, the boy will die. That is already in hand- but before he dies, I have drawn you out, have I not!"

There was no name for the spell, no words which could describe it. Raw power, cruel and dark and wicked curled out from the Dark Lord like a cloak of blackness, closing on the Headmaster- who half-stepped backwards, then stood firm, holding aloft his own wand. A blazing light issued forth from it, and the darkness drew back. Dumbledore breathed in deeply- and looked questioningly at Lord Voldemort- and the Dark Lord reached out a hand again, and seemed to tap at the illusion-bowl with one long, white finger.

"How much of you remains, Dumbledore?" He pointed behind the old man, to Mrs Figg, lying near-motionless on the flagstone doorstep.

"Enough to save a life? Ah, but what a heavy footfall. A life saved. A life lived." He chuckled, taking a step closer. Wordless, the old man watched him, his blue eyes never breaking their gaze as they stared into the twin red orbs of the Dark Lord's malice. "How many choices will she make? How great will be her own footfall upon the forces of destiny? It all mounts up, Dumbledore..." Voldemort's eyes blazed, and his wand struck out- not at the Headmaster- but rather through the window of Privet Drive, where Vernon stood watching, petrified with terror.

"Avada Kedavra!"

"Lapsus Arboreus!" Dumbledore flung his spell sideways, ensnaring a great old Leylandi in the garden of Number Six, and tearing it down- down, down into the path of the flash of light. The falling tree withered and died, leaves curling and falling- and once more, the lipless mouth drew back in a cruel smile.

"Another life saved, Albus... how many more?" He swung his wand back, hissing his curse: "Attenuata Nox!"

Raw blackness swept out at the Headmaster- and this time he staggered as his shield flared violet around him.

"As... many... as... I may... for as long as I can," Dumbledore gasped. "I fear you would not understand."

The voice came again, hateful and gleeful.

"Oh, I understand enough. Do not think that because I do not share a thing, I am robbed of understanding. You are helpless before your own compassion. You know that you must save your remaining strength, must act... but you dare not. You will let the boy go unprotected, because you cannot bear to let another fall in his place."

"Harry will not fall before you."

"No?" Voldemort smiled. "Yet you come here tonight, for one who is less than Harry Potter?" he pointed towards Mrs Figg again, and once more moved forward. "Of course you do. Even as I knew that you would, when no other help was left to her." He tilted his head to one side, his eyes half-lidded, blissful. "Like the boy," he murmured, his voice taking on a low, obscenely wheedling note, "You cannot resist the urge to help, to save those in need."

"Thank you." Dumbledore shifted his weight, his back slowly uncurling with a clicking of vertebrae. "As you say, Tom, my time is nearly ended- but, not, perhaps, quite yet!"

His arm swept high, and he called lightning down upon the Dark Lord.

"Fool!" Voldemort met the lightning with a halo of broiling greenish fire which issued forth from the tip of his wand. "What do you know of time? Avada Kedavra!" The curse burst from his wand- but Dumbledore was not in its path, and the Killing Curse dissipated against the Dursley's battered front door, even as the Headmaster Apparated back into being in the middle of the road outside.

"Cardiarrestae!" the Headmaster's wand flashed in his hand, and the zig-zag of purple light slashed through the air towards the Dark Lord's torso, briefly illuminating the whitewashed facades of Privet Drive in a macabre violet hue as it rent the air. Dumbledore reeled forward, the spell cast, clutching at the wing of a nearby car to regain his balance.

"Aestus Estus!" Voldemort shrieked, leapt high above the curse, his cloak billowing about him as he rose, blotting out the streetlamp's yellow glow behind, and his own hex boiled the air, rippling and crackling through it. Dumbledore flung himself back- and the paint bubbled away to nothing on the car's bonnet. Metal ran like wax- and petrol fountained, exploding with incandescent brightness. Casting his shield firmly about himself, the Dark Lord descended to earth, peering into the flames. All about him, alarms sounded- and lights flashed on in windows further along Privet Drive. He smiled thinly. It was time to finish this, and be gone.

"Diffindo!" He heard the old man's spell- and felt the measure of the power in it, and turned, not bothering to try to evade the magic, relying on the strength of his own shield. The splitting curse impacted on it- and was absorbed.

Dumbledore stood on the pavement, outside Number Four. Once again, disapparition had saved him. Once more, the old man's power had been enough. Voldemort held up a hand.

"Enough, Headmaster." He drank in the sight before him, seeing the weakness behind the facade of strength. "Enough now. You have fought bravely... but you are the warrior of yesterday. Lie down now and rest. I shall send your pupil to join you ere long."

"Not just yet, Tom!" Dumbledore wavered, but a searing flash of red light from his wand drove off a spinning helix of aquamarine fire as Voldemort struck at him once more. Then the sirens came- wailing through the night, as two police cars turned the far corner of the road and hastened towards them. Voldemort, eyes bright, turned to meet them.

"Aestus Estus!" he cast again, the parked car still blazing nearby- and the deadly wave of heat fountained forth from his wand. Behind him, he heard a faint moan of pain- but still, flickering, wavering, dancing with spots of yellow and blue where its weaknesses grew more manifest- a shield formed between the Dark Lord and the Muggles. He withdrew the spell, sweeping back.

"How many lives, Dumbledore!"

The old man looked up at him- and the pain on his face was beyond doubt now.

"How many times can you change fate, set your imprint upon destiny?" Voldemort gestured to the spinning shade of the bowl. "Fate's Crucible's bargain draws to its close. Let it go. Let it go," he repeated, insistently.

The cars had stopped. The drivers stared out, frightened faces in the night, at the impossible tableau before them. As they watched, the tall figure in black once more raised his hand, pointing towards the bent old man.

"Cardiarrestae!"

* * *

Harry stumbled into the kitchen and sat down heavily. Arthur Weasley was arguing with Kingsley Shacklebolt about something. Something to do with... he shook his head, the simple movement making his brain feel as if it was being kicked across a Quidditch pitch. For a brief moment of time, Ginny sat opposite him, a white bandage around her forehead, white stained with red. He remembered looking up at her, asking her a question, her shaking her head, grinning, saying something back. Then Molly had seized her daughter by the shoulders.

"Come on, Virginia Weasley. I dare say I shall hear more than enough about this terrible business before I get to sleep tonight- and tomorrow as well, if I know you children, but there's no call for it right now. Sleep's what you need, I can see that plainly enough... Hermione, Ron, for goodness sake take her upstairs and put her to bed." Ginny started to protest, but fell silent at one long look from her mother. "You're all alive," Molly told her daughter quietly. "That's all I need to hear about it tonight." With that, without another word, with barely a chance to lift a hand to Harry in half-wave, half salute, Ginny was hustled upstairs

Harry grinned, despite himself, even as the world seemed to waver in the firelight. Barely an hour ago, Ginny Weasley had faced Voldemort's right-hand man in a duel. Molly turned.

"And what do you think you're doing, sitting there with that silly smile on your face, Harry Potter. Go along, up to bed with you as well." She bustled him across the room towards the stairs. He almost made it. Then the fire roared up once more- and the shape of a phoenix stood in the flames. Fawkes. For a second, Harry closed his eyes, wishing for sleep- but already the limbs which had been placidly allowing Mrs Weasley to hurry them along had turned, drawing new strength from- somewhere- as he walked quickly back towards the fire.

"What's happened?" He reached out a hand towards the phoenix, and stroked its feathers.

"Harry, wait--!" Arthur shouted urgently. "You're tired- you're hurt, you can't..." Harry was already gone, tumbling through nothingness as Fawkes' wings spread once more, and tugged Harry after him through something that was not Apparition, but was as close as no odds. The last words he heard from Grimmauld Place that night were those of Ron's father, faint and fading, and told him that, if nothing else, Ron was a born Weasley.

"Bloody Hell," Arthur groaned- but by the time the words were spoken, Harry was somewhere else entirely.

* * *

Dumbledore staggered, his wand arm raised, the purple halo of his shield flickering, even has his other hand grasped at his chest, clasping his robes to him.

"Crucio!" Voldemort shrieked the curse, his voice ringing with glee, and Dumbledore's shield shattered. Without a cry, with nothing save a sudden, rattling exhalation of breath, the Headmaster dropped to his knees, straining to lift his wand arm once more. Keeping the spell on him, Lord Voldemort stalked closer.

"And now you have learned the measure of your folly, Professor Dumbledore..." there was a laugh like the rustling of old leaves, and, for just one moment, the voice was that of Tom Riddle, schoolboy, talking to his old master. "Where is the boy? Gone to war. Where are your friends? Gone to battle. Where are any of those that could help you now?" The laugh came again- and the Cruciatus curse went with it. With a racking cough, Dumbledore fell forwards, hands flung out to save himself. He twisted, his will pushing old bones beyond their limits- but ever the Dark Lord and his outstretched wand were central in his field of vision, the only clear things in the blur of pain, outlined in black against the raging flame and the night which was not so dark as His Malice. "And so, old man, it finally ends. Rejoice, for you shall go into darkness before your pupil, he who you would set against me. Rejoice, for his death agony shall be long and terrible... as is fitting." Voldemort's laugh rang out, and he lifted the wand high, the lightning seeming to crackle about its tip. Dumbledore struggled back to his knees- but the force of destiny was against him, a numbing weight on limb and heart. Still, the ghostly spectre of the Crucible revolved in the air, growing clearer now, as the pain cleared from his vision. He reached for his wand, lying beside him on the path... but every second was as a thousand lifetimes, and Voldemort was still speaking.

"... For he has failed you, has he not, old man? Where is Harry Potter when you need him now?" The wand swept back down, and Dumbledore's fingers began to close around his own wand- but too late. Too late. "Avada Keda..."

"REDUCTO!" Window and frame alike were torn from the living room of Privet Drive, flung aside by the writhing pulse of boiling magic that surged on, throwing the Dark Lord back, stumbling across the road, his own hastily thrown up shield barely weathering the onslaught.

"I'm here if you want me!" Harry Potter climbed over the jagged brick edging beneath the vanished window frame, his eyes burning, hair blown back in the wind, his scar blazing bright. He could feel the pain. He could feel the agony of Voldemort's wrath in his mind- but now it did not weaken, did not strike at him.

_How dare you. How dare you. _

It fuelled his own anger, and the Boy Who Lived came on, advancing as Voldemort regained his footing.

_How many died in Diagon Alley tonight so that you could lay one simple trap? How many? You hurt my friends, you hurt children, you kill people who have done you no harm!_

"_POTTER!"_ Voldemort's response was a snarl of rage- but something other than rage, something new and different was in his eyes, even as Dumbledore, moving slowly and stiffly, rose to his feet, standing at Harry's side.

"INCENDIUS MAXIMA!" Voldemort's firespell lashed out, and flames roared around them.

"Protegio!" Harry flung up the shield about Dumbledore and himself- weakening it- but he only had to maintain it for a moment. The Dark Lord's eyes flashed, and he sensed the weakness, strengthening his own spell. Harry stared into Voldemort's eyes, and, for a moment, let the sheer terror of the dark flood on to his face, his eyes wide and fearful, the fire reflected in the lenses of his spectacles, raw heat and all-consuming devastation. At his side, Dumbledore lifted his own wand wearily, sensing Harry's shield failing, and Harry saw the triumph rise in Voldemort's eyes to match the defeat and horror in his own. The fire raged about them. Then, with a savage twist of his end of the mindlink, Harry pushed his face forward, the fear draining away from his features like an illusion, as he bared his teeth to the enemy.

"Protegius Profligato!" He changed the spell, reforming it as Ginny had shown him, and braced himself, as the shield shattered, flashing over the fire and extinguishing it, and jarring Voldemort's wand arm- new wand, new arm, Harry reflected absently- painfully as the Dark Lord took a step backwards, almost- but not quite- driven from his footing by the shield. Side by side, Harry and Dumbledore raised their wands.

It was an empty gesture. The Boy-Who-Lived knew quite suddenly that his own strength had finally reached its end. He was weak and he was weary. Dumbledore, at his side, was in pain and tired beyond measure. The only weapons left were words- and that peculiar new expression in the eyes of the Dark Lord.

"The next time you come, Tom, come for me," Harry grated. "Because if you hurt another of my friends first, I'll do more than kill you." The two of them took another step forward. Without a word, Voldemort's wand arm swept up, flashing down with a sharp crack and a deep indigo haze of light which swallowed up his vanishing form... then faded into the flickering glow of the surviving street lamp.

Voldemort was gone.

He was gone, leaving Harry with the memory of a new expression in the depths of Voldemort's eyes. Breathing rapidly, hearing his blood pounding in his skull, the raw rage and pain in his scar fading, Harry lowered his wand to his side. He blinked, and coughed, turning to the old man at his side.

"Are you all right, sir?" Harry coughed, fighting back a strange urge to laugh. To laugh- after all that he had done and seen this night. He swallowed hard.

"Quite well, thank you Harry," Dumbledore swayed slightly, putting a hand on Harry's arm to steady himself. His face was weary, and his eyes bloodshot- but the twinkle that gleamed in their depths was bright and alive again. "Ah... five points to Gryffindor, I think, Harry."

"Hermione would tell you that you can't award points out of termtime," Harry pointed out.

"Then, Harry, I must ask that you keep it a secret," Professor Dumbledore murmured gravely, leaning on the youth as they made their way back towards Privet Drive. He knelt beside Mrs Figg, feeling for her pulse once more. "She will live," he noted, his head nodding, a smile of relief and weariness spreading across his features. "We were in time... but," he continued, looking back up at Harry again, "I fear that a further duel, with Miss Granger on the subject of School Rules, might be a little beyond my powers at present."

Hesitantly, with a faint quaver as if they wanted to be quite sure that it was really all right and no one would mind or take offence, at the far end of the road, police sirens were beginning to wail again. Harry helped Dumbledore to lift Mrs Figg, moving half in a dream towards the house.

"Somehow," he muttered, "Umbridge is going to try to make me pay the Obliviators' overtime. I just know it."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Well, I had to do a HBP reference somewhere. :-) 


	43. Of Breakfast and Farewells

**Chapter Forty-Three:** Of Breakfast and Farewells  


There was a... bird in Vernon Dursley's kitchen. Not an owl. He hated owls with a fervent passion, but had grown disgustedly used to them in recent years. At least an owl was a recognisable, believable, respectable sort of bird, even if they did always seem to be behaving in an absurdly outlandish fashion- but this bird, perched on the edge of the kitchen table, trilling quietly to itself, was a sort of bird he really did not want to think about, and flatly refused to put a name to, for all any fool could tell what it was supposed to be. They didn't exist, though, and that's all there was to it- so the damned thing couldn't be there, shedding its golden and scarlet feathers all over the linoleum, and occasionally turning its great big crested head and looking at him intelligently through eyes he didn't like the look of at all.

A girl with very long red hair and with a look in her eyes that Vernon liked even less than the bird's was sitting in Dudley's chair, her feet tucked up under her, getting dirty footprints all over the seat cover, and occasionally feeding the bird biscuits. Vernon's biscuits. His jaw dropped, and his lungs filled, causing the cord of his dressing gown to bite into that region of his body that he somewhat optimistically called a waist.

The kettle boiled, shaking about on its stand and noisily clicking 'off'.

"Ginny? Do you want some?" Vernon's head turned sharply left. A boy- with the same carroty hair and mean, working-class face as the girl, was pouring the kettle, while another girl, this one with unkempt and scruffy brown hair, watched the boy carefully- pulling the plug out of the socket as soon as he lifted the kettle, as if she didn't trust the boy not to do something as simple as fill a mug of coffee without somehow electrocuting himself. "All right, Hermione," the boy grumbled. "I'm not that thick. I've used Muggle stuff before, you kno- oh." He caught sight of Vernon, standing in the doorway, and nudged the older girl in the ribs. She turned in surprise.

"Oh." The girl had a small face, with quite bright, intelligent eyes. A cut above this lot, Vernon thought. Probably the ringleader- and then he placed where he'd seen the boy before. She glanced at the ginger-haired boy.

"You must be Mr Dursley?"

"Who the Devil are You?" Vernon squawked, looking wildly back and forth. The impossible bird on the kitchen table flapped its wings, startled, and the younger girl at the table reached up, soothing it, and gave Vernon another, even more unfriendly look. Mr Dursley tried the back door- locked. The three brats were looking at each other now. The boy looked almost amused, the older girl- the sensible one, he supposed- slightly alarmed. "How did you get in?" He looked to the front hall, where the front door flapped open. "Typical! So much for the police," Vernon snapped. "Can't trust anyone in this blessed country these days..." he stopped. That was right, wasn't it. Yes, there'd been a break-in last night. The police had come, of course, dealt with it- but... no... it wasn't quite like that, was it? Where was Petunia? There was a cold draught coming from the sitting room. He stepped in, blinking in surprise at the unexpected daylight through the jagged oblong hole in the front of his house where the window had used to be, and stumbling over a charred mess on his blackened hearthrug. What on Earth? They hadn't ram-raided the place, had they?

"Petunia?" he stopped. His wife sat by the fire, her lips pinched tight together, a steaming mug of something hot held mechanically in her hands. She was already up and dressed. Poor gal hadn't been able to sleep, obviously... except that still didn't feel right... somehow... he frowned.

"Get out." She grated the words coldly at him, not even looking in his direction.

"What... my pet, I..."

"Get out of my sight." The sheer venom in her voice made him recoil- and he found himself looking at the burned ceiling. He remembered green fire. Funny, why would fire be green? Unless it was... surely they hadn't... he charged back to the kitchen. The filthy little brutes had been... doing that in his house? He stopped short. The three teenagers were sitting at the table together now, drinking his coffee from his mugs, without so much as a by-your-leave- and, oh yes, now he remembered the scruffy little carrot-headed yob of a boy, all right. Friends of that Potter lout- he opened his mouth to bellow the boy's name, to fetch his nephew out of whatever hole he was hiding in- and the tides of memory came crashing home.

That Figg woman. Dudley screaming. That... dreadful woman in the cloak and mask. Then the old man, the fire... and then the other one, the one with the white skin and that awful, horrible face.

"One of the Obliviators had to put a temporary memory charm on you last night, Mr Dursley," the bushy-haired girl was saying, rising to her feet and looking at him understandingly- but without any trace of warmth in her voice. "You were hysterical, and they were trying to calm everyone down. It ought to wear off completely in a few minutes, if you've had a few hours sleep."

Vernon shook his head, numb. Charms, memory, obvious aviators, didn't mean a thing... he remembered Petunia, doing... he sat down, heavily, in his usual place- and crashed painfully down, his somewhat prodigiously padded posterior none the less impacting agonisingly on the hard kitchen floor.

The boy mumbled something incoherent past a mouthful of Vernon's cereal.

"Ron!" the elder girl exclaimed in disgust.

Ron swallowed, and tried again.

"You moved that on purpose, didn't you, Ginny?"

The younger of the two girls shrugged her shoulders. All of them were still dressed in outdoor things, Vernon noticed- in her case a heavy, rather expensive looking coat. Maybe the two carrot-haired ones weren't the penniless riff-raff he'd thought they were.

"Fawkes was getting uncomfortable perched on the edge of the table, weren't you?" She stroked the gold and scarlet... thing admiringly, where it now stood proudly on the back of Vernon's best chair, pulled to one side. The fat man struggled to his feet.

"Now listen here, you..." The back door swung open. Funny, that. Vernon could have sworn it had been locked two seconds ago. An old man- the same blasted old man that had invaded his house last night, but now dressed in grimy blue overalls, shuffled in, hung a shapeless brown hat on top of the refrigerator, and nodded to Vernon. This time, the look in his eyes, mild as it was, did not annoy Vernon Dursley- it terrified him.

"Good Morning, Mr Dursley," the old man said, in a meticulous, but charismatic tone, peering at him over the top of little half-moon spectacles, a worrying glint in his eye. Vernon shrank back- and recoiled, doing his best to look stern and in control of the situation. Behind the old man, his nephew walked in, one panel of his glasses cracked across, his clothes and skin besmirched with grime and blood.

"What happened at the hospital?" the Ron boy was demanding.

"Is Mrs Figg going to be all right?" the bushy-haired girl added. Vernon dimly remembered seeing his nephew last night, something about the window breaking- but when he tried to see more clearly, all he could see was that terrible white face, and hear a high, cold voice shouting. He started in surprise. A voice was speaking to him.

"Would you excuse me, please?" the Potter boy was looking at him unhappily. The boy looked ill, Vernon thought. Served him right. Feeble child in the first place, not to mention an idle, violent little layabout. Why, hadn't the boy assaulted him, in his own home? He ought to throw him out this minute... The small voice at the back of Vernon's head that put personal survival over what he considered 'ethics' reminded him that there were four of the boy's weird friends behind him.

"Can I get past, please?" his nephew repeated, in a sullen, dejected tone, not wanting to push past his uncle. Vernon waited a moment- just long enough to remind the little lout who was in charge in this house, and then stepped to one side. The Potter boy edged past, holding himself away from Vernon as if his uncle had something infectiously wrong with him, and, without a word of thanks, stumped over to the table, sitting down in Vernon's own chair, the great... big... bird on the chair back rocking slightly, and then leaning forward, clucking at the lout and making queer, whirring noises in its throat.

"A good deal, Mr Weasley, and yes, Miss Granger," the old man- Dumbledore- Vernon remembered the silly name with a start- answered the two children in a weary tone. "Thanks to Harry's aunt- and to Harry himself- and, perhaps," he placed one thin hand on his chest, over his untidily long white beard, "In some small measure I dare say to myself, Arabella will heal- given time." He paused, lifting his eyes. Vernon quailed before that look. "We were -just- in time for her."

"What about..." Miss Granger put down her mug of coffee, and gave a funny look round the table at the other four children. "What about Diagon Alley?"

"Twenty-one dead." For a moment, Vernon did not recognise the voice. It was heavy, and grim, and sounded as if it had looked something more horrible than he could imagine in the face- and stared it down. It was a familiar voice, somehow, but he couldn't quite place it.

His nephew lifted his head, his face as grim as his words. "Still seven left unaccounted for- and four more fatalities at the other attacks around the country last night." Harry's head dropped forward again, not meeting Vernon's eye. "And this was just for one trap."

Harry closed his eyes, his head hanging low over the formica table top. How many times had he sat here, tired from a morning's chores, eating a small piece of left-over toast or something while his aunt did the washing up, cringing lest any minute he be shouted at for dropping crumbs on the clean surface, or that Dudley should come downstairs, with some new idea to torment him. Ginny was next to him- he could hear the sound of her breathing- but in a way that was worse, rather than a comfort. She wasn't part of Privet Drive- he didn't want her to be part of Privet Drive, didn't want his thoughts of her touched by this place. He didn't want to think of her in the same thought as he thought of this kitchen, or of his great fat, oaf of an uncle, now recovering from his fright, and bawling at Dumbledore, at Ron, through the door at Harry's Aunt Petunia, demanding explanations and apologies from all and sundry for this unwarrantable invasion of his house and family.

_He's still in shock. _

Harry's lips thinned in revulsion. That wasn't any excuse. Anger flared in him, and he clenched his fists together on the tabletop. He didn't want the others to see. Didn't want Ginny to hear his uncle talking like this- above all, he realised, with a sudden shudder, he didn't want _any_ of them to realise what sort of life Privet Drive had been. They'd all heard- he hadn't kept it a secret from them- but hearing and seeing are two different things.

Dudley's footsteps boomed and crashed overhead, rather like a thunderstorm, only less cleansing- and he came down stairs at a run, shouting for his mother- and then stopping- Harry did not lift his head, but heard his movements- at the sitting room door, his cry of 'Mum?' suddenly uncertain.

"Dad!" he settled on instead, and, hearing Vernon in full flow, stomped into the kitchen- coming to a sudden halt in wide-eyed terror at the unknown but almost certainly magical faces around the table- and Dumbledore's countenance terrified him most of all. "Dad!"

Vernon's voice arose in wrath anew, seeing his frightened son, and for the first time he dared to approach Dumbledore, gesticulating wildly, loudly defending his actions- although none had, as yet, bothered to challenge them- and proclaiming the sovereignty of his house.

"Mr Dursley." Dumbledore looked up at him, and, noting some marmalade on his beard, looked absently around for a napkin. Ron lifted the corner of the tablecloth and handed it to him. "Ah, thank you, Mr Weasley." Dumbledore wiped his beard solemnly. "Mr Dursley..."

"... don't care who you are, you've no right! I was simply looking after my family! I've got a son, Fumbledore- a bright, talented son, and if you think I'm going to put him in danger just to look out for friends of freaks like--"

"Mr Dursley." Dumbledore's fingertips rapped once on the arm of his chair. Vernon fell silent. "Thank you. Now, whatever the rights and wrongs of this case, I am sure you will agree that we are all- all-" he added, casting a meaningful look at Ron, who had just opened his mouth with the apparent intent of saying something distinctly vitriolic to Dudley, who had barged past him to get to the fridge, which he was now standing in front of grimly, presumably in the hope of avoiding anyone hexing his food when he wasn't looking, "-- somewhat overwrought. Now, may I suggest that you sit down, have some breakfast- the marmalade is particularly good, I commend you, and--"

"Yes, all right!" Vernon Dursley snapped. Whatever the facts might be, he was hungry- and he knew that a good meal ought to settle his stomach and take Dudley's mind off the horrible experience those freaks had put the poor lad through. He raised his voice towards the sitting room. "Petu--" he stopped, and squirmed uneasily, trying to save face. "Perhaps not, eh? Better let the poor old girl get over the shock." He cast his eyes about for a moment. Bacon. Yes, bacon and egg. "You'd like a good old English breakfast, wouldn't you, Dudders old chap," he laughed with false heartiness, patting Dudley on the back too hard. Dudley- the size of his father but slightly less far from reality this morning, staggered under the blow, and looked round with a greenish cast to his face. "That'd put the colour back in your cheeks," Vernon went on, apparently oblivious to the fact that Dudley already had colour in his cheeks- the wrong colour. Feeling proud of himself, having brought some normality back to the morning, despite nearly impossible circumstances, Vernon bustled on, snapping his fingers at his nephew, slumping untidily in his chair.

"Boy, get a move on, will you. Three rashers apiece, and mind you don't burn... them..."

Harry's cheeks flamed, and he screwed his eyes tight closed. It was worse than he'd imagined. His stomach churned, and his breath seemed to boom in his own ears. Tentatively at first- and then, with sudden decision, a smaller hand took his own, and squeezed it tight. He looked up, and to the right. Ginny returned the look, her eyes intent- and everything was all right again. Harry put his hand over hers, and squeezed it in turn, giving her a grateful smile. Now that it was over and gone, he couldn't imagine what it was he'd been so afraid of.

Dudley was staring at him, then at the girl, then back at Harry again. His mouth dropped open, then shut quickly. He had learned the hard way not to leave it open in the vicinity of members of the Weasley clan.

Vernon barely noticed the gesture. His jaw still hung slack, eyes working furiously round in his head as he realised what he had just said, and in whose company he'd just said it. Dumbledore straightened ever so slightly in his chair. Ron's wand was in his hand in less than a second, and trained on Dursley.

"One shot," he muttered to Hermione. "Just one..."

"Ron!" Hermione's hand closed on the boy's wand arm, pushing it down to the table top.

"Oh, look here!" Vernon blustered. "Of course I expect the boy to help around the house- I mean- you foist this dratted good-for-nothing orphan on me, expect me to bring him up, use money we'd put aside for Dudley here--"

"Mr Dursley." The elder girl- Hermione- the sensible one, he'd marked her out as earlier, smiled at him. "It's all right. You don't need to say anything more." She put down her eggcup- and released the red haired boy's wand arm, he was slightly less reassured to note- but at least the vicious little brute seemed content to just glare at him now. His nephew- and the girl who was holding his hands on the table in a quite unnecessarily public, show-off kind of way- were looking at him again- although the boy's eyes flicked away to the older girl, puzzlement in his features.

Hermione stepped away from the table.

"Miss Granger..." Dumbledore began- and then stopped, eyeing Vernon. Harry's uncle's skin started to crawl at that look- although the old man's eyes were twinkling.

"My parents are dentists, Mr Dursley," Hermione Granger told him, walking over to the refrigerator. She held up a hand, gesturing round at the kitchen. "I can't help who I am," she shook her head, "But all this... this is what's normal to me. This is what I grew up with. So I can see how all the other..." he indicated the bird, still perching on the back of the boy's chair, "How all that seems strange to you. Frightening, maybe. I was so scared when I first heard about it. It's almost unbelievable, isn't it." She looked at him. "But you, Mr Dursley--" Hermione's leg swung up suddenly, and her knee drove itself hard into Vernon's groin. He doubled over, with a choked gasp, and Hermione shoved him backwards, until he lost his balance, and toppled, pinning Dudley against the refrigerator. "You're just plain abnormal!" she hissed at him. "That's for locking my best friend in a cupboard for the best part of ten years!" Vernon whimpered, sliding slowly down to his knees, his eyes watering. Hermione snatched a glass of water from the table, and threw the contents in his face, turning her back on him. She tossed her head, and looked questioningly at the Headmaster. "I think that's all we really need to say, isn't it?"

Ron stared at her, his mouth hanging open, with the air of one for whom Christmas has just come again. At the end of the table, Dumbledore's mouth twitched beneath his beard.

"Yes, Miss Granger, I believe it is. I had considered certain... more diplomatic lines of discussion... but you would seem to have covered the essential details." He rose to his feet, and held out a hand to Harry. "Shall we go home, Harry?"

The boy paused for a moment, giving Ginny a long look, and then nodded, rising to his feet, still clasping her hand. Dumbledore's hand lifted, and he gave a curious trilling whisper. The bird... the phoenix rose into flight, and circled twice around the kitchen, before settling on the Headmaster's shoulder.

"It always amuses me when Fawkes decides to travel this way," he murmured to Ron, leaning painfully on both Hermione and the red haired boy as they led the way from the kitchen. "Most piratical."

Harry and Ginny stood in the doorway for a long moment, and then Harry looked back, and looked his uncle straight in the face.

"Bye, Uncle Vernon." He turned, and, hand-in-hand with Ginny, walked into the hall. Vernon Dursley never once saw Harry Potter again, in all his life.

After a few paces, Harry halted. The front door was still open, cold and draughty in the December air of the last day of the year, and colder air still blew in from the gutted sitting room. He hesitated before the door, looking in at where Petunia sat, motionless. Tears had begun to flow soundlessly down the woman's pinched cheeks, and now where Harry looked she seemed not so much haughty, as withered before her time, twisted and wizened by grief and regrets. Yet still, there was a woman who had sneered at him, jeered and derided Harry Potter, James Potter, and Lily Potter for sixteen years- and known the truth, but still held on to the lie. He hesitated, unsure even now. Ginny let go his hand.

"Go on," she whispered. "You might not get another chance." Harry's eyes met hers, and he stepped into the room. After a moment, Ginny heard voices talking quietly- first Harry, then his aunt. She drew back, consciously blocking out the sound. She looked around. There wasn't really anything of Harry about this house at all- except, of course- her eyes were drawn to the little triangular door to the cupboard under the stairs. Half-nervously, she approached it, pushing her hands into her pockets and fidgeting. Outside in Privet Drive, Ron and Hermione were talking to Professor Dumbledore. He'd hired a car from some Muggles, to take them back to Grimmauld Place, since the Knight Bus's rounds had finished until the evening now, and no one was really up to any sort of magical transport at the moment. Her fingertips slipped over the doorknob to the cupboard. She half-drew back, then bit her lip. Well, after all, she'd quite literally stolen a look into his memories once before, already. Besides, she was sure she could make it up to him. Ginny pulled open the cupboard door, and looked inside.

It was all quite ordinary, really. A few funny-looking bits of Muggle stuff with cables and plugs on the end that her dad would doubtless find fascinating, but meant nothing to her, together with more recognisable oddments, like old boots, a dustpan and brush, and a couple of rolled up carpets, not good enough for the house, too good for the bin. There was nothing to suggest that anyone had ever lived there. She found it hard to believe that anyone had.

"Here, what are you doing in there?" Vernon saw her through the kitchen door, and blustered in protest. She gave him a hard look over the cupboard door, her hand reaching down for a moment. "Oh, nothing," she murmured. "Just looking." Mr Dursley's face reddened, and he looked sharply away. Now she believed it. She closed the door, and turned away.

"Hey, wait a minute." Dudley's slab-like fingers grabbed her arm as he pushed past his father, coming out into the hall. Ginny's hand came up, twisting his hand free easily. Dudley flinched in pain, and wringed his wrist, glancing nervously into the sitting room, and scuttling past the open door. He swallowed. Ginny looked at him, curiously. "Look... I just wanted to..." Dudley coughed. "That... last night." His eyes showed remembered fear, and he looked out into the street. "Last night," he went on. "That... thing out there. With the white face," he looked back at Ginny, and she nodded.

"Voldemort."

"He's..." Dudley jerked his head towards the sitting room. "It's after him, isn't it?"

"Yes." Ginny looked curiously at Harry's porcine cousin. "Unless Harry kills him first."

"Why'd he..." Dudley nodded towards the sitting room again, indicating his cousin. "Why'd he come here last night then? If he knew that thing was waiting for him? Why didn't he run off and hide?" He licked his lips, fists clenching and unclenching on the bannister.

"Because unless Harry can stop him, Voldemort will destroy both our worlds, Dudley. Yours and mine."

Dudley cleared his throat.

"Right." He nodded, and screwed up his eyes, then blinked hard. "Right," he said again. Inside the sitting room, Harry rose to his feet, clasping both of Petunia's hands in his own for a moment, said some quiet word of farewell, and then moved towards the door. Dudley coughed, and stumbled up the stairs as fast as he could. Harry stepped into the hall, his eyes shadowed, and wordlessly opened his hand. Ginny took it, and led him out of Number Four, Privet Drive. Once more, on the threshold, he stopped, looking back. From the top of the stairs, a pale face stared down at him for a moment, and then disappeared from view with a scrambling of heavy limbs. Harry stepped on to the doorstep, and was gone.

* * *

Rain was sluicing down the rear windscreen behind them. 

"She'll stay there- for now, at any rate." Harry's fingers tapped a languorous rhythm on strap of his seatbelt as they dawdled in the M25. His eyes closed, and his head nodded. With an effort, he shook himself awake. "Sorry... where was I?"

"Your aunt?" Ron ventured. Quite what had possessed Dumbledore to hire a lime-green mini for the journey back to London, none of the four teenagers were entirely sure. The old man seemed thoroughly pleased with his choice of vehicle, however, and was merrily passing the time by waving cheerily to everyone who hooted at his somewhat erratic driving, whilst beaming seraphically over the steering wheel. Hermione now, looking at his amused and absorbed face, chuckling brightly to himself as the karmic lanes of the M25's traffic jam carried their stream of traffic past the same Mercedes that had impatiently overtaken them as they left Little Whingeing, found it almost hard to remember the ancient, shattered man whose face had appeared in the fireplace at Grimmauld Place, half an hour or so after Harry had disappeared. Then, Dumbledore had looked every one of his many years. Now- they were still there, she realised, suddenly, tucked away behind that bright twinkle in his eyes, the memories, and the bone-breaking tiredness were still there. Ron had chosen the front passenger seat, reasoning that he was least likely to be squashed there- and spent much of the rest of the trip alternately complaining about the lack of legroom, or passing half-hearted sarcastic observations on Harry's position, squeezed in the back seat between Ginny and Hermione.

"Yes." Harry yawned. "We talked it over- but, as Professor Dumbledore said- even though I'm of age, and I'm not going back there again," he added, with a stubborn note entering his voice, "The wards around that house should keep her safe from Voldemort- at least safer," he added. "She'd be a target, if she left- and he would find her, no matter where she hid. This way, I know where she is- and he knows that, even if he did come after her, I'd find him."

"Do you really think that would stop him?" Hermione frowned. The dark-haired boy rubbed his face with one hand. On his other side, Ginny leant forward slightly.

"She's safer there than she would be anywhere else," she clarified. "I get the impression that 'safer' is about as safe as anyone's going to be, from now on."

"That's my little sister," Ron sighed. "Ever the voice of optimism."

"Speaking of whom..." Harry leant back against the seat cushion, letting his head loll on the back of the seat, and rolling it round to regard Ginny thoughtfully. "What _were_ you doing in my cupboard?"

Ginny gave him an innocent look. Harry's mouth twitched.

"Come on, Ginny..." he grinned.

"What makes you think I even looked?"

"Firstly, I know full well I would have done," Harry lifted an eyebrow at her. "Secondly, I got to know the sound that cupboard door makes quite well, funnily enough."

Ginny sighed, folding her arms with a tragic sigh- and a solemn wink.

"The last of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes," she remarked. "I'll have to go without until they rebuild the place now."

Hermione, on Harry's other side, looked across him in alarm.

"Ginny, what did you do?"

"Only a _little _buoyancy charm," she protested. "It'll wear off in a few hours!" She looked soulfully at Harry, her lip trembling. "And I made sure to pick one that wears off gradually- he'll come down gently when he does." She paused. "I'm almost sure he won't drift out of Earth's atmosphere first."

"Where and who?" Harry eyed her, a grave tone in his voice.

"In... your uncle's wellington boots," Ginny confessed.

Harry looked thoughtfully out at the wet weather outside.

"If I know my uncle," he mused, "He'll probably go for a walk to clear his head this afternoon." He lifted his eyebrows at Ginny.

"How interesting, Mr Potter." Ginny looked solemnly at him.

Ron turned back to look out of the front windscreen. They'd moved a few feet in the last few minutes. Give it another spurt like that, and they might possibly catch up with that snail on the crash barrier. After a moment, Hermione protested.

"Do you two mind- not when I'm stuck right next to you... oh, for heavens' sake." She turned and looked out of the window.

Ron gave a small smile, despite himself. What was it, Voldemort had said, in Harry's dream? That he'd have killed Harry before the old year died? He checked the small clock on the dashboard of the car. Eight hours to go. Well, it was beginning to look as if Harry was going to make it into 1997 after all. Surreptitiously, he crossed his fingers. Just to be on the safe side.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Three updates in one day. Well, more or less. That'll probably be it for this week, unless inspiration strikes in a big way, since I now need to get the next few chunks of plot organised. However, I can promise that the next chapter will open at Hogwarts. The Xmas holiday, having lasted longer than some entire fics, is OVER:-D 


	44. A Place of Learning

**Chapter Forty-Four:** A Place of Learning

"I don't believe it," Hermione seethed. "I don't _believe _it!" She clasped _The Theory and Practice of Self-Transfiguration: Understanding the Animagus_ by Theodore Aliment to her chest, and glared at Ron. "Where is he?" The boy sidled across the corridor, and stood on Hannah Abbot's toe, prompting a yell of pain from the reticent little Hufflepuff, and an angry comment from Ernie Macmillan.

"It's not my fault," Ron protested.

"You just stood on her foot with your great Hippogriff hooves, you clumsy lunk." Ernie bristled. "How's that not your fault? That's sabotage, that is- you _know_ we've booked the pitch for Quidditch practice all this week-"

"Sorry!" Ron interrupted hastily, and somewhat irritably. He took a deep breath, and turned to Hannah. "Sorry," he repeated, a little more sincerely, before turning back to a still fuming Hermione. "I can't help it, can I? He said he'd be back in time. What am I meant to do, stop him?"

"Yes!" Hermione spluttered. "He'd be back in time," she parroted. "Honestly, and you believed him? A tortoise keeps better time than Harry- and to be late for the first lesson of term of all things?"

"He might still--" Ron groaned to a halt. Professor McGonagall opened the classroom door, and adjusted her spectacles on her nose. She looked round the faces before her, and gave a slightly resigned sigh. Ordinarily, Professor McGonagall was quite stoically resigned to being a teacher respected by all, but rarely greeted by anything more than moderate enthusiasm. It was not an overly common feature of her timetable, to see students bubbling with suppressed excitement outside her classroom door- perhaps during the first fortnight or so of the first year, maybe- and, of course, for the spring term of the sixth years.

"Inevitable, I suppose," she said quietly, and cleared her throat. "Well, come along," she clicked her tongue reprovingly. The class rushed forward.

"One at a time, and with a little decorum, if you please- Mr Macmillan, Mr Weasley, kindly recollect that you are supposed to be Prefects-" she stepped to one side, counting the class as they filed in under a somewhat steely gaze, Ron and Hermione hanging back, each glancing along the corridor, hoping for a glimpse of Harry, "That's a little better."

Through the corridor window, Ron caught sight of a dark-robed blur, half-running, half-leaping down one of the less vertiginous staircases on the far side of the quadrangle. Part-way down, the figure slipped, stumbling and toppling out of sight.

"Come along, Mr Weasley," Professor McGonagall gave an exasperated sigh, "And where is Mr Potter?" she added, in some surprise. "I would not have expected him of all students to--"

"Sorry, Professor!" Harry turned the corner at the far end of the corridor at speed, and rebounded off a statue of Rowena Ravenclaw, stumbling again but somehow just about keeping his footing, albeit with his bag now looped around his ankle. McGonagall's eyebrows began a perilous ascent, and Ron winced on Harry's behalf, as the boy, attempting to swing the bag up and back into his arms whilst still running, hopped in a wide diagonal across the corridor, crashing shoulder-first into one wall, and, the bag strap finally free of his foot, spun round again, and half-ran, half-walked the last dozen metres or so. "Told you I'd make it," he panted to Ron. Professor McGonagall and Hermione regarded him with similarly withering stares.

"Now that Mr Potter has decided to grace us with his presence," the Transfiguration teacher sighed, "Perhaps we can begin without further interruption?" The remainder of the class hurried inside. Hermione glared at Harry.

"Harry, for goodness sake," she hissed, "You might not mind being late for lessons, but Ginny's in her OWL year, remember- if the two of you can't'--"

"I wasn't with Ginny," Harry protested. "Well, not after- anyway, I just had to send a letter, that's all," he finished lamely.

"Couldn't it have waited?" they took their seats.

"Not really- it's got to get to London by tonight so Remus can-"

"Mr Potter, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall tapped her wand against the desk sharply. Hermione's face flashed purple, mortified. "I am well aware," she looked around the class severely, "That you have all only just returned from your Christmas holidays, and doubtless many of you have had all sorts of interesting experiences-" Harry stared at her incredulously for a moment, "... that you are only too eager to relate to your compatriots- Mr Thomas, if I see that in my classroom again it will be confiscated forthwith, thank you- and also that there is a certain amount of..." she considered, "Perhaps over-optimistic, if commendable excitement regarding this term's curriculum- however," the Professor sat slowly and decorously behind her desk, "Whilst I understand your enthusiasm," the first hint of warmth appeared in her eyes, "We are studying a very difficult and complex form of magic, and I expect all of you to approach it in a sober and responsible manner. I hope that that is clearly understood?"

A low murmur of not-overly-certain agreement went round the class. Minerva McGonagall concealed another sigh.

"You are now," she continued, pausing to direct a meaningful look at Seamus Finnegan, until he turned to face forwards again, quailing slightly, "A little over one-third through the sixth year of your studies at Hogwarts, and everyone in this classroom to date has demonstrated a respectable proficiency in the field of Transfiguration- yes, I do include Mr Longbottom in that remark, thank you, Miss Bulstrode. If you wish to take over the duties of correcting and grading my students' work I would be grateful for the assistance, but I fear your own progress in matters of spelling and punctuation is not yet up to a standard to make that a practical alternative," the Professor levelled two steely eyes at Millicent Bulstrode for a moment, and then nodded. "Thank you. Now, over the course of the next two terms, we shall be considering what many consider to be the apogee of a Transfigurationist's art- human Transfiguration, and the Animagus principle. We will begin, this term, with the subject of Animagus Theory... yes, Miss Granger?"

Hermione's hand had shot up, her face puzzled.

"Isn't the Animagus transformation just a variety of human Transfiguration, Professor?" she asked.

"That is correct, Miss Granger."

"Then... shouldn't we study human Transfiguration as a whole before we focus on the Animagus principle in particular?" Hermione frowned. To her surprise, McGonagall gave one of her rare understanding smiles.

"Hipkin and Blaylock's Advanced Transfiguration: The Human Condition?" the Professor hazarded. Hermione's cheeks coloured slightly, but she nodded.

"In many respects, Mr Hipkin's assessment is quite thorough and correct, Miss Granger- I recommend his chapter on the various means of adequately maintaining the respiratory cycle, for instance, and we will be covering that subject in some detail later in the syllabus- but one area in which that particular text is somewhat deficient is its understanding of the Animagus transformation itself." McGonagall rose to her feet, and seated herself, somewhat precariously, on the edge of her desk, long skirts folded decorously. "You will bear in mind that, in the ordinary course of events, transfiguration is essentially a cognitive process, requiring patience, forethought, and precision if you are to succeed at even the simplest of transfigurations- and to most witches and wizards, this approach must be carried through to an even more rigorous extent when dealing with the transfiguration of a sentient subject." She fell silent, waiting until each student had turned his or her face towards her, waiting for her to continue- and then pointed at the blackboard- seeming, as she did so, to fall in on herself and diminish, her shape smoothly and quickly shifting with an extraordinary grace. A grey-marked tabby cat rose up to a standing position on top of Professor McGonagall's sloping desk, and walked across to the other side of it, looking quizzically at her students for a moment. Harry lowered his head, hiding a slight grin. He was immensely- well, fond was not perhaps the right word- proud of his head of house, but no one in Gryffindor could deny that, if Professor McGonagall had one point of vanity in her somewhat severe and pragmatic nature, it undeniably related to her skill as an Animagus.

The cat half-stepped, half-jumped down to the teacher's chair behind the desk, and stretched- and a moment later, Professor McGonagall straightened her little spectacles and stood up once again.

"As you will observe, in the case of the Animagus charm- since it is generally considered impossible to be both in the process of transfiguring oneself, and to be simultaneously ordering and governing a transfiguration in the normal, cognitive manner, a successful Animagus must develop a quasi-instinctive approach to the charm." She paused, looking round meaningfully. Taking the hint, a dozen or so quills hurriedly scratched across paper. "Therefore, in the event that any of you in this class do demonstrate some potential of becoming a future Animagus, you will find that your approach to human Transfiguration- and, indeed, subsequent use of any transfiguration technique becomes both far simpler, and distinctly different to the method used by other witches and wizards. It would therefore- in my opinion which I hope I am right in considering to be sufficiently qualified- be inappropriate and also somewhat wasteful of time which might be spent elsewhere to teach you in general human Transfiguration first, before ascertaining whether or not any one of you is likely to be best served by approaching the subject from another angle." The Professor looked at Hermione. "I hope that answers your question, Miss Granger?"

Hermione nodded.

Professor McGonagall paused, surveying the class once more.

"Once again, I must stress that this class will primarily be concerned with the theory and understanding of Animagi. I should remind all of you that, in the last hundred years, only seven Animagi of any kind have been registered with the Ministry of Magic." She looked in the direction of Harry and his little group. "Factors of heredity- however persuasive they may seem, or of magical skill in other areas," she moved her gaze on, to another group of pupils, "...do not in any way guarantee anyone in this class any measurably higher chance of successfully mastering the Animagus principle. It is entirely possible that there will not be one Animagus amongst you. This is not something to be ashamed of. I will always advise any student to put the utmost effort into their studies, and aim as high as they possibly can- but many years of teaching this particular subject has taught me that there is not a sixteen-year old witch or wizard alive in the world who does not dream of becoming an Animagus with this form, or that form- and so I would ask you all to exercise a certain amount of realism. By all means, work your hardest- but do not expect too much."

She returned to her seat.

"At the end of this term, there will be an examination- it will not count towards your final NEWT score, Miss Granger-" she interjected, "And will be wholly practical in nature. If any student wishing to study to become a fully-fledged Animagus demonstrates to me that by that time they possess the appropriate potential, then I will be happy to organise and provide separate tuition for them in the Animagus field for the remainder of this year and the next." She offered one last note of caution. "Please abide by this restriction. I am well aware of the... nefarious reputation of certain unregistered Animagi of the recent past- but take note that this is an extremely difficult, and extremely dangerous field for unsupervised experimentation."

"Now, we shall begin."

* * *

"I thought I'd find you here." Ginny's face was half-shadowed by the setting winter sun as he looked up, and she let her schoolbag drop lightly on to the red tiles of Helena's Nest. Harry nodded, swinging his legs down from the bench to make room, and holding out an arm to her. Ginny kissed him lightly on the lips and settled down next to him, wrapping her coat tightly around herself. "Harry- it's freezing in here- haven't you heard of a warming charm?" 

"Sorry- I was just thinking." Harry murmured, half-distractedly.

"Honestly, Mr Potter, a girl might suspect you of something," Ginny grinned at him, "Luring her out here on a cold day like this. She might imagine that the famous Harry Potter was going to start suggesting all sorts of shocking ways to keep warm."

Harry arched an eyebrow.

"Funny," he managed a smile, "It sounds almost to me like the girl who imagined that was... wishing it would happen, or something, doesn't it?"

Ginny considered the possibility thoughtfully.

"I deny everything," she concluded, leaning on his shoulder cheerfully. "Still, it is an interesting theory, isn't it?"

"Shame we haven't got more time to test it." Harry looked out over the half-frozen lake, fading black in the twilight. Outside, a blackbird perched on the window ledge, quietly warbling his muted winter song in his throat, and sizing up the potential for a safe night's roost in the nearer of the two holly trees. "They'll be locking the gates in half an hour." He looked at her sadly. "I was really improving my Legilmency, too."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, hands clasped, fingers gently entwined. After a while, Harry exhaled quietly in amusement.

"Go on then- you first?" He looked quizzically at her. Ginny returned the look with an acknowledging tilt of the head.

"Age before beauty, Harry," she responded playfully.

"Well," Harry drew in a breath, lifting his eyebrows. "I'm not sure that works any more- after all, you've sort of caught up until July, haven't you? As for beauty..." He paused, falling silent and letting his eyes range over her face. Even now, the closeness of her made his heart beat slightly faster. "All right," Harry met her eyes with a delighted smile, "I'll concede that one."

"Not the game, though," Harry continued, a little while later. "Just the point. Your turn," he finished, determinedly.

Ginny sighed, stretching her legs out in front of her and flexing her ankles wearily. The light had grown dim, and Harry produced his wand, making a small light, warm and yellowish.

"Oh, I don't know," she half-shrugged her shoulders. "The blasted Daily Prophet didn't help. I know, I know- it's not like they were going to ignore what happened, was it- but... all right, it just gets on my nerves," she admitted, with a sharp breath. "Less than a week ago, we were up to our eyebrows in Dementors- and today I'm running away from Colin and his camera. It all seems so ridiculous- but people have died- you know- Hermione and my brother know... and..." her grip on his arm tightened slightly. "We're not the only ones. There's a lot of faces missing, Harry."

He nodded sadly. Although neither he nor Ginny spoke of it more than they could help, many students still had not returned to the school after what had happened at the Ministry last Autumn- and five more letters had been sent to Professor Dumbledore, or the governors, after the fighting in Diagon Alley. All were of much the same import-

_Due to current circumstances... great regret... have utmost confidence in you and your staff, but none the less... concerned for the safety of our children... hope that you will understand our decision... we will be removing such and such a child from the school without delay, until further notice._

Ginny pulled a face.

"I feel like- I really don't know," she said, fiercely. "It's as if no one's talking about them- about everyone who's dead, and everyone who's too scared to carry on- because they're all too busy looking at us. I've known Colin Creevey since we were both eleven years old, Harry! I mean, forget all that fan club business for a minute- he's been a good friend- and, yes, he's always looked at me a bit... differently since you and I... well, you know..." she added, squeezing his hand again, "But now... it's as if we're some sort of symbol." She shook her head. "No, it's more than that. People are looking at us because they don't want to look at the empty seats."

Harry pulled her closer, letting her head nestle on his shoulder, enjoying the fragrance of her hair, and looking silently into the flickering wand light, held out in front of them. The last orange streamers of cloud were fading towards a purple dark, the sky a darkening blue behind them. From outside, faint as it was, the wand light shining from the windows must make the Nest seem like some strange, squat little light house, perched on the edge of the lake- except that it could not be seen. Only two people in Hogwarts could ever see that sight, and both were at the source of the light.

Ginny stirred and pulled away slightly, her face pulled into a smirk of realisation.

"The 'Boy-Who-Lived'," she noted, quietly. Harry nodded, eyes still on the wavering light- but his arm gently squeezed her shoulder.

"This is the part where you're meant to tell me how to cope with it," she prompted him.

"When I work it out, you'll be the first to know. I suppose we could always go down the Lockhart route," he added, very solemnly.

"I'll get Colin to have some autograph pictures printed off," Ginny nodded, looking absently away into the night outside. "Maybe we could ask that Skeeter woman to write a biography of you?"

"That's an idea," Harry noted. He considered. "Of course, you realise with that picture he took of us last term-"

"You mean the... one when we'd just come out of the lake?"

"Yes... that one. You realise we'll have to try and do the same again," Harry added, in a mischievous tone. "People will be expecting it." He watched her face carefully.

"Oh." Ginny considered this. "That might make Little Tommy blush." She half buried her face in one hand for a moment, her shoulders heaving. "Oh, Merlin's beard, Harry," the girl's head tipped back against his arm, "Can't you just imagine it? You and Voldemort in the middle of that duel up there," she nodded towards the distant hillside, a great shoulder of black on black, only visible by its shape against the stars. "With Colin hopping round, trying to get the best angle?"

"He'd probably keep asking Voldemort to do things again, so he could get a better shot," Harry's lip twitched. "Oh, and of course, you'd have to be draped helpless across my arms. Probably half naked," he observed, innocently.

"Oh, in your dreams, Potter," she elbowed him in the ribs.

"From time to time," Harry murmured, pulling sideways out of range of an elbow whose impact he judged to be inevitable.

Ginny lifted her eyebrows, and turned to look at him. It was difficult to be too certain of her expression in the flickering light, and for a moment, Harry feared he might have gone slightly too far. Only for a moment.

"Harry..." Ginny's brow wrinkled slightly. "Um... bearing in mind that Tommy's been inside your memories on more than one occasion..." she gave a very slight shake of the head, and arched an eyebrow back at him.

Harry stared at her frank expression, feeling a deep blush rise in his own cheeks.

"Oh dear."

"Quite." Ginny maintained her deadpan expression with some evident effort. "Point and game to me, I think," she touched his cheek, feeling the warmth there, and added, as an afterthought, "I hope he's not in your mind at the moment?"

"Not last time I looked." Harry shook his head.

"Good." She kissed him again- this time at some length.

Eventually, they pulled apart, as the light from Harry's wand-tip faded away, his mind elsewhere- suddenly reminding both of the darkness and cold outside. Harry, hurriedly re-igniting his wand, caught a glimpse of his watch face and gave his girlfriend a horrified look.

"They'll have shut the gates- come on, we might just make it..." he went to stand up- but Ginny's hand pressed into the centre of his chest.

"Oh no you don't." She gave him a wry look. "Funny, isn't it? I come out here to find out what's wrong with you- and we spend the time talking about my problems." She narrowed her eyes, giving him a knowing sort of a grin. "Sometimes, Mr Potter, I wonder if you're quite as adorably dense as you seem." The hand moved to his arm. "We can go- but when we get back to the tower, don't even think about sneaking off up the staircase before we've had a talk."

Harry looked at her, and felt the playful smile slide slowly from his face, as he sank back into his seat again, Ginny sitting down next to him once more. His eyes felt heavy, now, and there was a lead-like feeling in his limbs.

"Harry? What is it?"

He pushed his hair out of his eyes.

"You might not want to know, Gin," he told her, his voice serious again. "You really..." he put a hand on her arm. "You really might not want to know- but if you do, then we talk about it here. Never mind the castle... I'm not talking about this in Gryffindor tower, not yet."

Ginny gave one look back in the direction of Hogwarts, rearing proud and massive in the middle distance, lights twinkling and burning merrily in its many windows. She could see the outline of the tower, high on one side. Then she turned back to him.

"Tell me."

* * *

_Earlier that afternoon._

It was lucky, Harry supposed, that he'd grown used to Professor Snape. A student less experienced than Harry in the ways of the Potions Master might, just possibly, have supposed that their shared part in the adventures of the last month or so- not to mention Snape's own failure to realise the depth of the problem with Draco Malfoy- might have softened the Slytherin teacher's attitude towards him slightly- or, at the least, given Harry a small amount of latitude for a while. It was, he reflected, not an impossible dream- after all, it was more likely than, say, Voldemort joining the staff as Assistant Herbology Professor.

"Just not much more likely," he decided, stooping to retie a shoelace while the remainder of his Slytherin classmates pushed past, hurrying on their way back through the damp netherworld of dungeons that separated the Potions classroom from their common room. Having to work with Pansy Parkinson- which, he had to admit, was a reasonable enough expectation in theory- with both Blaise and Malfoy absent, he and Pansy were both in need of a partner, was an idea with one massive flaw- he _couldn't _work with Pansy Parkinson- not under any circumstances. Whereas, with Blaise, the two of them had generally managed to lurch along in some semblance of teamwork- albeit with the occasional hiccup, and even Harry and Draco had tended to achieve the occasional result when working together. Usually the wrong result, for which Harry invariably was blamed- but a burning desire to outdo the other had at least provided some sort of motivation. Pansy, however, flat refused to follow any suggestion put to her by Harry- or, indeed, to attempt to work with him at all. She simply pushed on as if working on her own- deliberately ignoring anything Harry said or did. If he added two grams of chopped mandrake to the cauldron, she promptly added two grams more, as if he had not done so- and then, when accosted by Snape for the large stain on the dungeon ceiling, swiftly accused Harry of having added ingredients without telling her. If, recognising her strategy, Harry simply left the potion alone, Pansy would somehow manage to attract Snape's attention, who would instantly and seemingly gleefully berate his least favourite pupil for laziness. After one hour, Harry had been beginning to suspect that Snape had embarked upon a mission to see if he could single-handedly drive the Gryffindor house points into negative figures. At the final, longed-for end of Double Potions that afternoon, he was convinced of it.

He was enough of a realist to admit that he was not entirely blameless. After all, he had- after it had become clear early on that any particular effort made in the Potions class today would be wasted (a realisation which had occurred roughly seven seconds after Pansy had resentfully flounced over to his desk, on Snape's orders), undeniably allowed his mind to wander back to the more interesting ground of the Animagus principle.

Harry's thoughts fell back into that same tack now, as his feet- recognising that they were to get no further help from the much-vaunted hub of the central nervous system- faithfully and, largely, without complaint, led him back up towards the ground floor of the castle. At least Hermione had resisted the temptation to say 'I told you so'. All right- maybe she was right. Perhaps Harry -although, if so, in common with over a third of the rest of the Sixth year, truth be told- had rather taken the idea of being an Animagus both to heart, and somewhat for granted. His father had done it. Sirius had done it. He wished now he'd talked more about Animagi with his godfather- but, he supposed, with a stab of still present sadness, neither of them had truly expected to be parted so soon.

Well, that wasn't quite true. They'd both always known it was a possibility- but neither had believed it.

On the other hand, as both Hermione and Ron had said- it was only the first lesson of term. Maybe, given time, all the theory might make a bit more sense to him. He snatched off his glasses and cleaned them with the end of his tie, put them back on- realising as he did so that, after his tie had spent two hours in the Potions dungeon, 'cleaned' had possibly become a relative term, and used a hurried cleaning charm on spectacles and tie both. It all just seemed- too much. Too many things at once. How was he supposed to somehow visualise every organ in his body, keep them all working properly, whilst changing their shape into something else in less than two seconds? Since he hadn't actually- surprisingly enough- dissected himself lately, he didn't really see how he could do that. Or was he meant to just take a deep breath, will the change- and somehow survive long enough for his consciousness to resurface in his new form?

It shouldn't matter, he knew that. Harry started up a spiral staircase, narrowly avoiding a pair of first years, hurrying down- presumably to Snape's next class. Both Gryffindors. He gave the latter of the two- the one who hadn't trodden on his foot- a sympathetic look. The boy ran in terror. Harry sighed. No, it shouldn't matter. After all, he didn't need to be an Animagus to defeat Voldemort- and for himself- well, he was the star Seeker, wasn't he? He'd got his friends- he'd got Ginny- and his frown lifted a little despite himself at that thought- but this was different. Being an Animagus- it was part of the same sort of thing as the Marauders' Map in his mind. It was part of his father.

Lost in thought, he missed the first shout entirely.

"Hoi, Potter!" His head pulled up sharply, and he looked round.

"Blaise!" Harry retraced his steps. The dark haired girl was sitting on the plinth of a statue- Wendelin the Weird, in fact, her legs crossed, and hands folded on one knee, tucked away in the corner closest to the wall. Moving past the statue, lost in thought, Harry was not surprised not to have noticed her before. He took a seat next to her.

"How are you feeling?"

Zabini's lip gave an ugly twist.

"Like some effeminate blonde tosser picked me up with a spell and tried to knock the common room wall down with the back of my skull, how'd you think, Potter?" she retorted. "When I get my hands on that little git- I hear Weasley turned him into a ferret, right?" she glanced at him. "Thank her for me, would you?"

Harry nodded. He'd rarely before seen a Slytherin dressed Muggle-fashion. Even at the beginning and end of term, they always seemed to trot to across Kings Cross station in the longest, blackest coats they could manage. Blaise huddled in a thick, shapeless, largely colourless fishing jersey that reached half-way to her knees, its sleeves pulled forward over her hands, and there were numerous patches and darns in her black jeans. Black, of course. She was that much of a Slytherin, he reflected, with faint amusement. He shifted his attention to her head, once more swathed in a thick white bandage. Blaise rolled her eyes up.

"Just for the protection spells, mostly," she muttered. "Still throbs like hell, but apparently my skull's not going to fall all over the floor any time soon."

"Madam Pomfrey let you get up then?"

The girl nodded gloomily.

"I'll have to start back to classes on Monday," she remarked. "Snape says he wants me to get used to walking around the place a bit first though- and told me not to push myself too hard."

"Snape said _that_?" Harry stared at her.

"Pretty much." Blaise picked at some loose fragments of Wendelin's kneecap. "He sneered it a bit more than that- and chucked in a few comments about how he didn't think my teachers'd miss me much- but that was what he meant, yeah."

There was a slightly awkward silence while Harry attempted to visualise Professor Snape in this light. Finally, Blaise spoke.

"Thanks for coming to see me last night, by the way," she shrugged, in an offhand sort of way. "Sorry Madam Pomfrey wouldn't let you in. I wouldn't have minded being woken up."

"Sorry we were so late. The Aurors had about ten security checks at Kings Cross before they let anyone on the train." Harry responded. "Are you sure you're all right, Blaise?" he added.

The girl's pale face twitched slightly.

"I'm fine, Potter- just- well, feeling like a bit of a twit, to be honest."

"Because Malfoy beat you? Blaise, he knocked Ginny and me- and Ron, and Hermione, _and _Neville and Luna all sideways."

"Not that." The Slytherin girl got to her feet- staggering slightly and grabbing hold of the statue's arm to save her balance. Harry offered his own hand, but she gave him a lethal looking glare. "Look, this might not make much sense- but I made a promise." She considered that. "At least I think I did. It's probably all nonsense, but... can I talk to you in private for a minute?" She pointed to an open classroom door, a little further along the passage. Harry nodded, puzzled, and followed her inside.

It was a fairly humdrum, normal classroom- judging by the leftover sums on the blackboard, probably generally used for Arithmancy. Three medium sized, arched windows faced west. Five rows of desks faced the teacher's own, slightly larger table. A place more grey, unremarkable and resolutely grounded in the mundane world would have been hard to find in Hogwarts.

Blaise sat close inside the door, turning her chair to face Harry's.

"Listen," she began, her normally pale complexion flushed slightly. "Like I said, this might make no sense to you at all. It might be just some weird dream or other- but I was talking to Loony Lovegood yesterday afternoon, before you lot arrived." She looked at him for confirmation. "She said you and Dumbledore- after all that business out there with Malfoy and You-Know-Who," the girl grimaced, "Well," she took the plunge, "She told me you did a Priori Incantatum on His wand?"

"That's right," Harry nodded, cautiously. Blaise nodded to herself, hearing it confirmed, and then winced, nausea briefly rising in her features as the pain in her head throbbed.

"R-right," she went on, after a moment. "The thing is, Potter- while I was really out of it, those first few nights... well, things were fairly messed up in here." She pointed to her own head. "I had a lot of... well, dreams, I suppose you'd call them." She licked her lips. "I can't remember a lot of it. Some of it was just... well, it didn't make enough sense to remember- there wasn't anything you could actually latch on to and say was even like anything real, if you see what I mean?" He looked at her curiously. Blaise shifted on her chair, uncomfortably. "All right." She swallowed. "I wasn't- I mean, it didn't feel like I was alone in there."

She looked at the Gryffindor boy. Ever since she'd woken- no, later, since she'd been sitting up in bed, reading the 2nd January edition of the Daily Prophet, and had seen that photograph of Arthur Weasley, being rather reluctantly interviewed for the Ministry of Magic, and the image had stirred something in her mind, the pieces gradually falling back into place, she'd gone over this in her mind.

She'd made a promise- and yes, he'd saved her life in the garden- whatever that meant. She owed it to him to keep that promise, to tell Potter what he'd told her- if he had told her, if it was real, any of it- but every time she'd imagined this moment, tried to work out how she'd tell him, this is where it went wrong. Either he'd laugh at her- no, Potter wouldn't do that- or, more likely, he'd get all concerned and compassionate, and try to hustle her back to the Hospital Wing until she was feeling better, and had stopped being delirious, or whatever it was he thought was wrong with her. She knew she wouldn't have believed her story.

Potter did a strange thing, then. He lifted his hand up to his forehead, and pushed it under his hairline, his fingertip tracing over the outline of his scar, a pensive look on his face. Blaise hadn't ever seen him draw attention to it before. He cleared his throat.

"Someone else was in your mind?" the boy's eyes narrowed. "And they had something they wanted to say to me- that's what this is about, isn't it?"

Blaise' eyes went back to the scar, questioningly- but Harry's hand hurriedly tousled his hair back across it again, and looked at her interrogatively. She licked her lips.

"All right..." she went on, embarrassment fading- and feeling her body cool, no longer awkward, but seeing the next hurdle, and feeling suddenly nervous. "You believe me."

"I'm a Gryffindor," Harry responded, with any irony in his voice deeply concealed. "Go on."

Blaise swallowed. Now this, _this_ was the point where, in her imagination, Harry Potter lost his temper.

"It was Percy Weasley."

* * *

Sitting close, half-turned to one another, knees touching, and his left arm linked with Ginny's right, it was as if an electric shock had passed through the girl. She jerked away, standing and looking out across the night skyline. Harry had let the wand light die, some time in the telling of his story, and Ginny had renewed it. Now, her wand hung idly from her fingers, and inside Helena's Nest all was black in the sudden gloom. He waited, knowing not to go to her- not until she made some sign. He trusted her to leave the emptiness when she was ready. 

Moments went by. Finally, after what seemed like years to him, Ginny drew a deep and intentionally audible breath, and he rose, going to her and wrapping his arms around her waist, leaning forward to rest his chin gently on her shoulder. Ginny's hand found his in the dark.

"Tell me." After a moment's silence from him, she continued- her voice shaky, but certain. "You're not just telling me this to upset me on purpose, Harry. There's something I need to know. Tell me."

Harry nodded, his own eyes following hers in contemplation of the stars overhead, and began to speak again.

* * *

"When we tried the Priori Incantatum on Voldemort's wand," Harry told Zabini quietly- not heeding her stifled intake of breath at the sound of the name, "It produced echoes of the spells it had cast." He closed his eyes. "When the wand casts the Avada Kedavra... that echo is the image of the person who was killed... and we saw Percy then- but there was something stopping him from talking to us. I don't know what- or who it was..." he let that slide for now. He had a suspicion, fast hardening into a certainty, after all. He continued. "Can you remember what he said to you?" 

Blaise pulled one of the desks over to her chair, and leant her elbows on it, resting her chin on her hands.

"It's not easy, Potter," she told him. "I don't know- quite how I was thinking then. I mean, everything was real- seemed real... but not the same real as this, if that makes any sense. Things you saw and things you heard... were sort of mixed up. Not the same way round- and he wasn't speaking like we are now- not all the time, anyway. Sometimes he was, other times it was like... like I'd just drifted off and started daydreaming and then when I came back, he was still talking, but somehow I'd heard everything he'd said in the meantime- I knew it... but I hadn't been listening. Maybe I'd just worked it out in my own words."

"Just tell me what you can."

* * *

**taxzombie: **Oh, I couldn't kill the ferret off quite yet. To many people want a piece of him to let him die that easily. As for Darling Delores, the main reason she's free is that Harry's not that well-versed in wizarding law. You're right- he certainly could have pressed charges- and he knows it- but, on the other hand, he decided that worrying about Little Tommy was more important than worrying about an obnoxious uncivil servant he thought he'd already more or less beaten- especially when he wasn't 100 percent sure of how to go about chasing her down anyway. This may have been a mistake.

As for the giants on the train- well, it's more environmentally friendly than sending them by road, isn't it? Lord Foldydork may be a Dark Lord, but he's a Green Dark Lord. ;-) Oh, and Ginny's new wand will indeed prove quite significant...

**Wolf's scream:** Glad you enjoyed the battle. I spent ages trying to work out those three chapters- and then one evening they suddenly came more or less right to me. Petunia Dursley's moment of truth is another one of those moments that I had in my mind ever since this story started, and I've been looking forward to writing it.


	45. Dialogue With

**Chapter Forty-five: **Dialogue with...

I had fallen. I wasn't sure how far- I remembered stars, dancing and being engulfed in light, and a pit... and a candle, a tall, pale flame. I looked at the tall young man, leaning over the garden gate, and took a step backwards, stepping on sharp gravel.

"You're the Weasleys' older brother, aren't you?" I folded my arms across my chest, and sat down on a park bench close by the hedge. "You're dead," I said flatly- largely to see how he'd react to that. He frowned.

"I was murdered by Voldemort."

Funny. I could cope with him being dead. He was in the other garden, and they do things differently over there- but saying You-Know-Who's name like that- not proudly, the way your girlfriend says it at the DA, or the way you say it- a bit louder than you say anything else, and angrily, like you're daring someone to complain about it or something- but for him, it was just another word that didn't mean anything any more, and that- worried me.

"Am I dead too?" I had to ask. The way things looked, it seemed pretty obvious to me that I was dying, and any minute now he'd be opening the gate and telling me to hurry along down to my new dorm room before he had to deduct points or something. All right- I know it's not funny, Potter. Thing is, I didn't know him that well, did I? To me, he was that Gryffindor Prefect. He seemed a bit of a weird choice to be calling me over to the other side anyway. I'd have thought my grandfather could at least have bothered to show up. Fat chance. He was probably busy in whatever the afterlife did for a betting shop, gambling away the family's karma on dead Quidditch players.

Anyway, Weasley shook that long-necked head of his.

"How long?" I put a hand to my head- I don't know what I expected to feel- maybe bits of my skull coming off in my hands- I really don't know. I do know that for about the first time in what felt like years I could remember what happened- remember being in the Common Room, I mean, and Malfoy going for me.

"I don't think you're dying, Zabini." He looked up at the sun, shading his eyes with his hand. "You came close- but there was someone there for _you_." He didn't try to hide the bitter tone in his voice- except maybe he wasn't speaking. When I tried to think about it too hard, what I'd thought was real, and there in front of my eyes was like a painting, one of those really bad ones on the fourth floor staircase?

Except it wasn't just a painting. I don't know if I saw him, or really heard him- but he was there.

"Thanks." If I was speaking, I don't think I sounded too polite- but I meant it. I owe him. That's why I'm talking to you now.

"They won't let me speak to Harry, Blaise." He stood up straight, and put on a pair of spectacles, trying to look business-like. Again- like I said- maybe he didn't. Maybe it's just... that's all I remember of him. That's Percy Weasley to me. Then he looked sad. "She doesn't want me to speak to any of them... but I have to tell him about it."

I shook my head- and then I did feel it. I don't know if- I don't know, maybe I was still alive enough that my outside head tried to shake as well, but my feet were slipping on the gravel path- it was deeper, now, and sliding down the steep slope to the centre of the garden, even though I knew it had been flat a minute ago, and the green hedges were grey walls and the plants were all gone.

I fell, rolling down hard stone steps underneath the sliding shale, and the sun in the sky overhead was peering down at me, prying at me. I tried to get my feet under me, but it wasn't any good- the gravel caught them, twisting them round and holding them while I fell faster- and turned, and my back jarred against something tall and stone that didn't move- and I wasn't moving any more.

A stone bowl, somewhere deep and dark. The sun was still there, high overhead, but there wasn't any heat or light, and he was gone. I felt behind me. Whatever I'd fetched up against had stopped me falling- it was old, old stone, crumbling and cracking when I touched it. Felt narrow. Like a pillar, or one side of an open arch. I don't know why I thought that.

I tried to pull my feet under me again, but even though I'd fallen as far as I could fall- it wasn't easy. The gravel was deep here- even though, when I wasn't trying to, I could feel the flagstones just beneath the surface. I twisted and turned about, holding on to the stone behind me, clinging to it. It was solid and certain- but I didn't want to face it either.

* * *

_His words were for another. That I did not hear, but as I questioned that which I knew candle-flame burned high about me once more, and pain rose in my heart._

_I stood in a little room, dark and fearful, and He stood before me, robed in black, and I beheld him in agony and terror._

_His wand reached out to me, and the living thing that he had corrupted surged and tore at my flesh. Then he spoke one word, in a voice like ice, and fire burned at my heart._

_"Ah, Harry, but how he betrayed us..." His dead eyes fixed upon me, and the agony I felt then was fresh and cruel, and did not dim into memory as the burning does, now faint and distant, a pain of flesh long since departed- but the gaze of Lord Voldemort lives on in my soul, and the cruelty. "And how strong the debt his sister owes still. Would you prefer that I take it from her?" _

_And it seemed to me that I saw him- the Boy- standing before and somehow inside the tall and terrible figure, the Boy's eyes looked out at me in horror and grief- and I reached out._

_I've been a fool. So much of a fool... but we all so desperately wanted it not to be true. You didn't remember it before, Blaise. You didn't remember it, Harry. I was so young... but I remembered the fear, and I remembered so much else._

_It seemed to me then that I saw you, and I knew that I saw you, and I called out to you through his eyes, and through the burning pain. _

_"You have to know..." I had known then that I was dying- and dying from the old terror that we'd turned our faces away from. Since that first time that He had set foot in the Ministry, we had known that he was back- but only now, at the last moment, I believed it._

_

* * *

_

The last thing I saw was that face- like a skull wrapped in snakeskin, with those two horrible, beautiful eyes- and then I was running down the path, not looking at the shrubs and trees, running towards the little wooden gate- I'd seen that gate before, at home somewhere- where he was waiting.

"He killed you..." I took hold of his hands over the gate. They were smooth- unmarked. "I'm... "

Listen. I was half dead and hallucinating, all right, Potter? I know you're a decent enough sort, for a Gryffindor, so you don't tell anyone I tried to put my arms round him, all right? Really stupid thing to do, anyway.

Just for a second, I didn't see Weasley like I'd known him. He was standing there, and he was just fire. A man made of fire- and I pulled my hands back, even though they hadn't been burned.

Then he reached out and caught my arm in a claw of licking flame- and it was a hand again by the time I'd looked back up to his normal face.

"Please, Blaise, there isn't much time."

I'd thought the dead had all the time in the world. I didn't say it.

"We don't have any time at all. This is your time- and you're standing on the edge." The chasm was beneath me, roaring with darkness, and I was falling forward, but his hands were on my shoulders, and he was holding me back. "When you get back- she wouldn't let me tell him."

"Who wouldn't?"

_"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches...born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not...and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."_

A big mouth and listless, dead eyes, a horrible smile. She enjoyed saying it. I knew her.

I don't know when your birthday is, Potter- but I'm guessing end of July, right?

* * *

"Umbridge?" Harry grabbed her wrist, his eyes intent. "He told you that- not something like that- he actually said that?"

"As best I can remember." Blaise wiped her mouth with the back of one hand. "Potter- what's happening to me?"

"I don't know." Harry sat back, shaking his head. "It sounds like- he reached out to you somehow- but I don't know how he could have done..." He laughed, a short, harsh sound more like a cough.

"I don't see what's funny about it," Zabini snapped. "The more I think about it, the worse it feels. You're telling me he was _inside my head?_"

She stared at him.

"You're honestly telling me you'd be all right with that? He was in my memory, Potter." She swallowed hard, a sick look crossing her face again. "It's not like I've got anything special to hide or anything," she said hurriedly, seeing his look of guilty concern. "It's just... well, it just feels wrong- horrible. I keep a lot of stuff- a lot of me, I suppose- that I don't want people seeing up there, out of the way- and you're telling me he just wandered in and sat down in there for a few hours- days, maybe, while I was out of it... and you'd be all right with that happening to you?"

"Blaise- " Harry sat down beside her again, and nodded. He took a patient breath. Perhaps he'd been urging her on too fast, scenting a solution to a mystery that had plagued him. Perhaps he'd forgotten. "You're right... listen... remember when you first said you weren't alone in there?"

She nodded. Harry pushed back his hair again. He wasn't going to tell her the whole truth- not everything. That wasn't something he was prepared to let anybody know outside the inner circle of the Order... but still, she had earned the right to understand part of it.

"Do you remember last year? When Voldemort was rising, and nobody would admit it? Do you remember when I collapsed with the pain in my scar?" He touched it now. "I'm linked to him." Strange. Telling someone now- thinking of it, confronting it head on- hurt so much less now. It still horrified him- revolted him to the core, when he reached out in his thoughts and felt Voldemort's mind, far away somewhere, at the end of a slender strand of thought... but horror and terror were not the same thing. "He's been inside my mind, Blaise- and I've been in his."

The Slytherin stared at him, her mouth dropping. For a moment, her jaw worked helplessly. She started to say something, then stopped, reading the honesty in his eyes.

"You're kidding... no. You're not." She considered for a moment, and then drew in her breath. "OK. So... that toad-faced old hag we had teaching Dark Arts last year tried to stop the spell you and Dumbledore were doing, because she didn't want Weasley to tell you about this." She nodded. "Makes sense," she finished, with a bleak look in her eye.

"Why?" Harry leant back again slightly, giving the girl space.

Blaise swallowed again, her face still pale, but the ill cast fading from her features, as she mastered her feelings a little.

"If Weasley was right, it was Umbridge that got him killed."

* * *

Longer ago, I was in a room- no, it wasn't me... it was a bit like this place, really. Grey and pretty much the same. A man in a fat man's striped suit stumped quickly over to the doors- big, wooden doors with brass handles, and felt down the centre seam, his wand in his hand. He was an old man, a big man who'd been bigger, but his face was thin and worried- and his eyes were bulging.

"That's a breach of trust!" The man stared at her- it was her. Right down to that bow in her hair, and that same weird smile she had on her face when she'd hand out that pen if you got detention with her. She was sitting in front of his desk- and the man in the suit hurried back behind it now, gripping hold of the edging and pressing his fingers in like it made him stronger, somehow.

"You... stupid, blundering fool!" His skin mottled with the anger of a coward pushed into danger. "We... I ought to... you realise, if he found out about this, old Dumbledore would be perfectly entitled to drag this entire Ministry through the Wizengamot? I can't afford that- not after what happened downstairs. Blast it, Delores, what the devil made you do such a thing?"

The woman smiled at him, patting her hair, and rolling up a scroll in her pudgy hands. She turned to me, sitting in my little chair next to the Minister's desk, my notes in front of me.

"Off the record, Weasley," she instructed me, with honey on her tongue, and a simpering sort of smile. I remember I felt thrilled to be included- I'd expected to be thrown out as soon as things turned dangerous- but they trusted me. Of course, I was a bit shocked by what Ms. Umbridge had just done- well, naturally. The Minister was right to be angry- but they wanted me to stay, and thought I could be some help.

"Of course it's off the bloody record!" Minister Fudge snatched at his sparse hair, then seized the edge of his desk again, as if he somehow breathed through his fingertips, and would suffocate if kept from his papers and blotting paper for too long. "Delores, you don't seem to understand. That prophecy was smashed when those children and the... the Death Eaters were fighting down there. Dumbledore will have told the boy now- if anyone ever finds out that we know--"

"Hem. No one ever will find out." Umbridge looked hard at him. "It was nearly sixteen years ago, Cornelius." She simpered at him. "Do you suppose even Dumbledore remembers the name or the face of the witch who took the copy of the memory from his mind now? Even if he does- what proof do you suppose he has?"

"Sometimes I wonder if he... needs it." Fudge shifted uncomfortably, squirming. "But look here, it's not as simple as that. The law is quite clear-" his other hand curled into a little round fist and started to rap on the desk in time with his words. "When the memory of a prophecy is stored--"

* * *

_Those were the words of the seer, and one thing was forgotten. When a magical prophecy is taken and recorded, the seer that speaks the words does not recall them, for he or she is but a channel for that which is spoken. The memory is copied from he or she to whom the prophecy was made, and set in imperishable magic within the Department of Mysteries- so that, should the one to whom the truth is spoken die, ere those of whom the prophecy speaks come to claim it, it shall not be altogether lost._

_No other is permitted by law to know the full words of a prophecy- and so the one who draws forth the memory, and casts it in the sphere of remembrance, is afterwards him or herself charmed, so that that memory is forgotten, and entirely cast out of their minds._

* * *

Umbridge coughed. Fudge froze, mid-sentence, his face- already purple- darkening.

"Come, Cornelius. The Obliviator in question was well paid-off for his... lapse of duty- and if the Ministry has turned a blind eye to certain... egocentric falsehood he has published since then, what of it? He can never reveal anything damaging now- and it was Mr Potter himself who considerately saw to that, before we had any need to dirty our hands."

"Secretary Umbridge, I don't think you quite understand," Fudge fumed. "That prophecy was the private- moral- property of Harry James Potter and of... of... of You-Know-Who," he snapped.

"Are you suggesting that we should respect His rights?" She looked at him curiously.

Fudge turned away, shaking his head.

"This is a disaster. It's the end of your career, Umbridge, you realise that, I hope. I shall have to apologise to Dumbledore- Potter as well... and after He came to this Ministry! Oh, good heavens, what stupidity I've let loose..."

"Dear, dear, Minister please- think for a moment." Umbridge beamed across the table at him. "The prophecy is ours- think about what it says." She leaned forward- and in that movement, without any magic or glamour, she changed- not outwardly, but in her voice and the set of her face. "Think about what it could mean."

"Could mean?" Fudge stared at her. "It means war, Delores, that's what it means." He mopped his brow miserably, standing up and going to the window, his face seeming to grey and age. "Oh lord, that's what it means... and we've cast the first hexes on the wrong side." He turned back, suddenly finding some further reserve of anger. "And you were the one who told me you were so sure the dratted boy was lying. There wasn't any way He could be back. Nonsense." He flapped his hand in annoyance. "Dash it all, Delores, he's out there!"

"Why, Minister, I told you what I did in all good faith," she sat back. "The prophecy clearly stated that the boy would have 'Power to vanquish the Dark Lord'- and so he was vanquished." She adjusted her little bow. "Without the other one there was no way I could have realised that--"

"Well what in Circe's name do we do now?" Fudge turned, suddenly, and scuttled away from the window. "I'll have to..."

"Minister..." she simpered at him. "Think about it. You are right, of course. It means a war. Surely you can see what that could mean?" She glanced at me, and then looked back at the Minister. "If we choose the right path..."

"Delores Umbridge," Fudge pushed his chair out of the way, slamming both hands palm down on his desk and glaring at her over the face of it. "Weasley, you can hear this. Delores, if you're even beginning to suggest we make some sort of deal with You-Know-Who, then you can consider yourself under arrest right of this moment. Weasley--"

"Hem. Hem." She faced him down with a controlled, wheedling little smile. "Minister, please. Surely you and I are of one mind enough to know I would never consider so... disgusting and destructive a course of action- but the last war ended... so unsatisfactorily. All those..." she hesitated for a moment. "All those people who had served Him but walked free."

"Lucius Blasted Malfoy." Fudge's fists clenched tighter. "Free with his money- always worming his way in- all the time waiting to bite me in the back."

"Exactly, Minister. We have a chance now to put a proper end to this- and to show the Great British Wizarding Public that wars are won by the Ministry of Magic, not by scheming old iconoclasts and disruptive schoolboys." She shook her head. "Nobody wants He Who Must Not Be Named to be the next Minister for Magic, Cornelius- but do you want it to be Albus Dumbledore?"

* * *

I took the glass of water, and thanked him for it.

"There just didn't seem to be any harm in it to begin with," Percy told me, leaning against the gatepost. "After all- in a way we were protecting Harry- Delores told us that the prophecy was fulfilled- Harry had _already_ destroyed Voldemort. Of course, Dumbledore wouldn't see it that way- or he wouldn't want to see it that way. He'd want his pupil to face Voldemort- fight him- but that would mean Dumbledore being in charge of the war again, just like last time- and we'd be letting him send the boy to his death. The Minister agreed with Delores. Drink your water." Percy was gazing into the hollow of an old oak tree, standing on his side of the hedge, and towering up over it. "We believed it because we wanted to believe it- but Minister Fudge wasn't a fool, whatever you think of him, Harry. We only wanted what was best for you- and for this country, of course- but then the Minister started to have doubts. We began to see the shape of what Delores wanted to do- he spoke to her, told her she was going too far. Obviously, we had to be safe- of course, things had to change, but the sort of things she was proposing were just too extreme- far beyond what the Minister was prepared to sanction.

_"You were my head of department, Minister."_

_"What?" his voice was sharp and dismissive- but his head still turned to face her, the invisible wire found and pulled._

_"When we took the prophecy from Albus Dumbledore. When I bribed that ridiculous popinjay of an Obliviator to leave my memories intact. It was when you were my head of department." _

_Fudge paled._

_"It was during your campaign to stop corruption in the Ministry of Magic," Delores Umbridge told him sweetly, with a little giggle- but the smile did not reach her eyes._

_The Minister stared at her, his eyes beginning to water. Suddenly, his gaze snapped sideways to me- the first time he'd acknowledged me in the whole meeting._

_"You know what's at stake here, Weasley--" he began. "Perhaps Delores is right- perhaps what we do with this information is more important than... how we came by it," he added, with a shudder._

_I nodded. Of course. Minister Fudge was quite right. _

"I was only his secretary, Blaise, I didn't know everything."

I walked high on a far distant road, a ribbon of black across white mountains that plunged down to either side into valleys so steep that the light could not climb from their depths- and the sky was a dark ocean overhead. He strolled at my side, looking forward as I looked back- always back, and he took my hand in his own.

"Those last days, though... I think the Minister realised something. He spoke to himself, sometimes, while he was writing- and he wrote quickly, furiously, as if he was trying to scratch something away with the nib of his quill. It was... as if he'd changed his mind about something, and thought it was too late. He'd found out something- something Delores had done, I think, that made him realise that something she'd said- maybe all of it- was a lie. I remember one thing he said..."

_She's afraid of him._

He turned to me and we stood either side of that gateway, my feet treading in the flowing gravel of the tiny garden of walks, while he stood beyond the little gate in the endless garden beyond, bright colours grown too brilliant for my garden flapping in the wind behind him. He leant forward, and took my head in his hands, and kissed me on the forehead.

"So one night," he whispered, and I looked up, and drew back- his face was a ruin. Charred and crumbling ash still part moulded to the shape of flesh, clinging to blackened bone. The hollow sockets that had once held eyes gazed blank down at me, and I fought to pull away, ash crumbling on to my upturned face.

_One night..._

He clung to me, and his face was whole, freckles and red hair, and eyes wild with fear and the memory of a nightmare.

_The Minister had demanded to see her. She asked to speak with him in private, once most of the rest of the staff had gone home._

"They came."

* * *

I think a week went by, before he spoke again. I walked in the garden- I didn't sleep, or eat. Sometimes I drank- but I can't remember from what. The sun turned in the sky- but I can't say how fast it turned.

"It's ending, Blaise." He called to me one day, and I walked down the path to him. He seemed taller now- and although I could still see the one who'd helped me, I couldn't see Weasley anymore. It was like looking into the sun- you could see it- but you couldn't look at it and see it at the same time. He put out a hand- but all I could see was a flame, licking white in the air- and when I reached out for it- it was cold, and I couldn't touch it. "Will you tell them something?" His voice was still a human's voice. "Please tell them. Mum, and Dad, and Charlie, and Bill, and Fred, and George, and Ron and Ginny- please tell them I loved them."

"You love them."

_Do I? Can I still love, Blaise? Tell me I can still love. _

Asking the wrong person.

_Can you tell me that? _

He was getting fainter now. I could still see the shape- but I could look it straight on now. A flicker of light in the dark, like a candle flame in a window somewhere. Nearly gone.

"If you can't..." I wasn't even sure if he could hear me any more. I shouted, sitting up and splashing the water in the dark pool around me. "Why'd you say all this, Percy? You love them!"

The flame dipped. It wasn't going to burn me. I could see that. It wouldn't burn me. It quivered, bobbing on the water, as if nodding its head, thanking me, and looking deep into it, I thought I saw a garden gate, and, beyond it, a tall man with red hair, one arm held up with an owl on his sleeve, walking away.

The candle went out.

* * *

Blaise had turned away from him, going back to the window and standing there as she spoke, arms pressed into the narrow arch, her chin pillowed on her upturned and crossed palms. Now she fell silent- except for a steady, deep breathing.

Harry's throat seemed too tight, like an echo of that dreadful day at the end of September. Dim and distant somewhere, he could feel the rage beginning to gather force- but still far away. He looked across at Blaise.

What had it cost her, to tell him about this? He pushed back his chair. He liked the little Slytherin girl- but it was hard to think of her as a friend, somehow. For one thing, with Blaise, what you saw was almost always exactly and entirely what you got.

Where did he begin?

"Thanks." He managed, a little shakily. "Really. Thank you."

"Thanks?" she sounded a little lost. "Are you sure I've not just made everything worse? I still don't understand half this- but what he said... I get the feeling that's going to come back and haunt someone."

She jerked her shoulders, a bodily grimace at the bad choice of phrase, and pulled away from the window. For a moment, Harry caught a glimpse of red eyes in a pale face, and then she resolutely looked away. The Boy-Who-Lived determinedly turned his own head away from her, giving her her privacy.

"Thanks for the truth," he told her, honestly. "Listen... trust me, going to dinner's not going to feel too good right now. I can get Dobby to bring you something- you ought to have something to eat. I'll take you back to your Common Room--" he held out a hand. Zabini hesitated, reluctant to take it.

"Ah, come on Potter," a new voice grumbled, the door pushing the rest of the way open. Harry started, twisting round nervously. He was sure he'd fastened it. Goyle gave him one look- a funny sort of look from Goyle, almost sharing something, and held his own big hand out to Blaise. "Don't want you Gryffindors getting our password," he grunted to Harry, "Besides," he added to Blaise, more quietly, as she looked up at him, surprise making her forget herself, and lifting her tearstained face. "What is it again?" The large boy looked down at her, his face a picture of confused innocence. Blaise stared at him- and gave a weak laugh through the tears.

"You're hopeless," she shook her head, and pulled a face. "And for the sake of Salazar Slytherin's stripy socks, will you stop me shaking my head..." Her face quickly grew sombre once more, and she turned her eyes to the floor- but she took his hand, and let the other Slytherin support her.

Goyle gave a vague mutter of affirmation, and let her lean against him, turning to look back at Harry as the two Slytherins moved out into the corridor. Harry's eyes slid to the clock over the blackboard, and he mouthed the words 'How Long?' to Goyle. The boy's heavy features pulled into a more definite expression, and he nodded to Harry.

"Long enough."

* * *

Night was full upon them now, and it was bitterly cold. He felt Ginny turn in his arms, reaching up and putting her own arms around his shoulders. Her cheek was cold against his own, and he could not say from whose eye the tear fell as it ran down between them. After a long time, she spoke.

"Somehow- we're going to stop this, Harry."

He drew back his head to look at her.

"When Blaise first told me, I thought..." he murmured, "I thought we could prove it... but you know what Hermione would say. It's not evidence, is it? I know- I trust her- and it feels... right, but it's not enough."

"She helped him." Ginny's eyes glittered in the dark. "She helped Voldemort murder my brother. I'll kill her- I'm sorry, Harry, but I'll--"

"And end up dead yourself, or in Azkaban?"

"I don't care--"

"Ginny!" He held her tightly to him. "She's not alone, Gin. It wouldn't be just her. Even if you did kill her- what happens then? Someone else takes over- someone who can use you killing her the way she used Voldemort killing Fudge? Someone who can destroy the Order, because one of us killed the Minister of Magic? Gin, last Autumn I was ready to go down there and tear her heart out of her chest and not care what they did to me- but it wouldn't do any good."

She stopped, and clung to him in the dark. He let out a long breath.

"You're right." Ginny's voice was quiet again. "Which is annoying," she added, after a moment. "But we can't go before the Wizengamot and say that we accuse Delores Umbridge of being a traitor because our friend- who was concussed and in a coma at the time- dreamed that someone who's dead told her that Umbridge deliberately arranged for the Minister of Magic to still be in the Ministry when Voldemort attacked, can we?" She pulled back slightly, knocking with one hand on his chest, in an almost playful gesture.

"There's always the Amoeba Vendetta." Harry looked out across the lake again. "Shacklebolt and Tonks were trying to trace it back to her- but I don't know if they'll be able to get any further- not now Umbridge must know Kingsley Shacklebolt's involved with the Order."

"At least we know now," Ginny told him grimly. "It might take a while- but the clock's started to tick."

His arm slid around her once more, and shoulder to shoulder, they watched the moon move out from behind a shifting cloud, and lay down a trail of silver light across the lake.

"Not a good night to be Remus," Harry observed, after a while. Then, tensing slightly, he looked up at the castle. Behind the castle, stars scattered blue-white across the night sky, and, in its walls, star-like points of light flickered at windows- but few of them, and lights danced and went out even as he looked. "Or us," he groaned, kindling a small wand-light again and looking at his watch in the glow.

"What time is it?" Ginny moved over to the doorway.

"Half-past eleven." Harry grimaced. "Hellfire, Gin, we should have gone back to the tower-" he glanced around. "I don't know about you, but I don't fancy trying to find any of the secret passages in the dark." He considered. "We'll have to go to Hagrid's hut. What he's going to say I don't want to _think_ about... but at least we'll be somewhere warm... and I don't want to think about the morning either." He shook his head. "We are going to get more detention than both the twins..."

Ginny sighed.

"Men."

"What?"

"No forward planning. Come out here." She slipped through the doorway.

Harry followed her- and, by the light of his wand, made out two broomsticks, propped against the wall. She took hold of her own broom by the handle, and raised her eyebrows at him. He grinned in the darkness.

"You didn't think you three were the only ones who ever sneaked out after dark, did you?" She passed him his Firebolt. "We'll go to the top of Gryffindor Tower- remember, up on the battlements?" Her face suddenly fell. "Which... may be a bit awkward if I have to come down from the boys' dormitories at nearly midnight, after being missing all evening."

"Good thing I've got an invisibility cloak you can borrow then, isn't it?" Harry kicked off into the air without waiting for a reply, lazily spiralling upward towards the stars.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Now for some fun for a change.

**Review Responses:**

**David305: **Thanks for the review- you bring up an interesting point about the ages- which had me scrabbling through my notes :-) The confusion lies in the fact that I've not used Ginny's 'official' birthday, since I didn't recall it having been mentioned 'in canon' in the first five books (I'm not 100 certain on that, but around 70-80). In a way, it's a pity I didn't- I like the point you make about their various signs. For clarity's sake- and in the hope that people will spot any glaring errors I've missed, since it only gives one 'spoiler'- the timescale I'm using is:

1st September 1979- School year allocation date. Anyone born before this will be a year ahead of Harry. Anyone born after this will be in Harry's year.

19th September 1979- Hermione Jane Granger born to Benjamin Granger, dentist, and Susan Granger, dentist. I'm still waiting for someone to notice that joke.

1st March 1980- Ronald Bilius Weasley born to Arthur Weasley, Ministry of Magic, and Margaret Weasley, witch.

8th April 1980, Something happens that has been mentioned quite frequently in books four and five, but never given a precise date. Also Molly falls pregnant again.

This is just about physically possible- I know at least one person who somehow managed to do so, with no particular ill-effects as far as I've heard.

31st July 1980, Harry James Potter born. Many people have been extremely unhappy about this, but have yet to successfully do anything about it. Mr Potter is quite attached to life, and prone to magically fillet the arms of people who attempt to detach it from him.

1st September 1980- School year allocation date. Anyone born before this will be in Harry's year. Anyone born after this will be in the next year down.

1st January 1981- Virginia Weasley born, a few weeks premature. This is not particularly serious for the child of a witch. Her being born into the New Year is also quite nice.

I admit, it's not 100 canon accurate- but then, if we go by canon, I've got Ginny's name wrong and given Blaise entirely inappropriate reproductive organs :-) On the other hand, I like 'my' Blaise, and Ginny's rough date of conception was something I needed arranged about that time.

**SeikoTuNeR:** The point isn't so much Harry's power- as Harry's use of that power. My reading of Book Five is that, yes, he was an emotional wreck, but that he's beginning to pull himself out of it by the end- the battle on the train, seeing the Order 'make a point' to the Dursleys, and so on- so he makes the decision to fight. That decision is in itself what improves his Occlumency- he's shutting off his emotions more or less by habit now, in order to fight- and that gives him the ability to resist Snape. You're right, he's still not a very good Occlumens at this point- but he is a better Occlumens than the one Snape last challenged, and that's where Snape falls down- because he assumes Harry's useless, he over-extends himself.


	46. Secrets and Heroes

**Chapter Forty-Six:** Secrets and Heroes

Neither Harry nor Ginny were particularly ready or eager to wake promptly the following morning. Harry awoke from a dream of tall-masted ships and turbulent, dark-skied seas. He remembered- with the vanishing ripple of waking memory's failing grasp of dreams- the creaking of ropes and the yawing groan of wood, as he stood high at the masthead, a scarlet pennant fluttering beside him in the cloud-strewn shadow of the sky; the creaking taking on words, two voices arguing, both familiar- then a sudden curse.

"Enervate!" It felt as if the gales around him had suddenly been blown straight through his skull, roaring between his ears. More or less of its own volition, his body jack-knifed over on to its back, hands pushing back the bedcovers. A survival instinct somewhat less drowsy than the small part of his brain that called itself 'Harry Potter' snatched up his wand from the bedside table- for once in his life, finding it exactly where he thought he'd left it, and trying to aim through sleep-befuddled and poorly focused vision.

"Hey, wait a minute, Harry, it's me!" Ron hurried forward, a dark blur, and shook the boy the rest of the way awake- guiding himself out of the line of fire from Harry's wand at the same time.

"Told you that was a bad idea," Neville grumbled from the doorway. "You're just lucky he didn't wake up already cursing." He added, after a moment, "What's he so tired for, anyway?"

"Well, bearing in mind him and Ginny being off somewhere all evening, and what time our star Seeker here finally rolled home... ah, I shouldn't think Ron wants to know that," Seamus grinned, as Harry fumbled for his glasses, and Ron rounded on the Irish boy with a few profanities and curses of the non-magical variety. Harry's four room-mates were already dressed, still somewhat sleepy-looking in several cases- Dean and Seamus particularly had been accustomed to keeping rather later hours during the holidays, and had not yet adjusted back to school-time, but in all other respects, were ready to face the day.

"We let you sleep as long as we could, Harry," Neville told him apologetically.

"I expect he had a rough night," Seamus observed, in a deadpan tone. Dean snorted with laughter, and Ron glared at the two in speechless rage, before swinging back to Harry.

"Ron..." Harry shook the last of the sleep from his brain and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He was- truth be told- a little reluctant to get into too frank a discussion of just what he and Ginny _had_ been doing the previous night, albeit not for the reason Seamus was needling Ron into expecting. Still, Ron shook his head rather abruptly, and passed Harry his toothbrush.

"Never mind," Ron remarked, in a somewhat strained tone. "I know you two aren't so thick as some people in this room-" he glowered at Seamus, who smirked back, heading down the stairs with the other two, "But just watch it, all right?" He stumped across to the door. "Like Hermione says, Ginny's got her OWLs to worry about." He paused for a moment, and then added, "And Voldemort. Don't get me wrong, I like the two of you being together- honest, Harry- but oh, forget it," he finished suddenly, going through the door still shaking his head.

After a moment or two, Harry closed his open mouth.

_Typical._

He could exonerate himself in a moment- even Ron at his most curmudgeonly would never suspect Harry of inventing Blaise's story to give an excuse for his and Ginny's disappearance- but, on the other hand, it didn't feel right in the least to use that in such a fashion, knowing it would affect Ron much as it had affected Ginny, just to avoid Ron's half-serious protective streak. On the third hand, Harry reflected moodily, as he washed and dressed, Ron too would have to be told the whole truth sooner or later.

* * *

He caught Ginny up just outside the portrait hole, on his way down to whatever remained of breakfast. 

"I'm glad I'm not the only one late up," Harry commented, by way of greeting, as the girl favoured him with one of her early-morning-pleased-to-see-you-but-need-coffee variety of smiles. "Sleep well?"

Ginny pondered this as they made their way down one of the main staircases.

"Yes, surprisingly," she admitted, once a crowd of first and second-year Ravenclaws, having seemingly bolted their breakfast like starving beasts at a crowded oasis, dashed between them. "You're right- night flying does clear the head a bit."

"We could always do it again some time," Harry suggested, with a tentative grin.

She nodded.

"I'd like that- mind you, we probably should try to get in a little earlier next time," Ginny added, with a sudden chuckle.

"Oh," Harry groaned. "Did you get the inquisition as well?" He told her the general gist of Ron and Seamus' remarks, with a wry smile.

"Not that, _quite,_" the girl grimaced. "Marigold and the others just wanted to hear every juicy detail. At least you managed to get a night's sleep first. Those four were sitting up _waiting _for me, I'm sure of it." She jumped the last couple of steps and started along the north corridor. "Mind you, Hermione gave me a pretty severe look this morning- but I think that was more to do with being outside the castle after dark- after last winter, you know," she added thoughtfully, "Than whatever we might have been doing."

Harry nodded, walking abreast of her.

"Well," he observed in a dry tone, opening the door at the end of the corridor and ushering her through, "I'm sorry if I've given you a bad reputation." He favoured her with a very serious, penitent look.

"Mm," Ginny murmured, leaning against the doorframe with downcast features. "It's a shame, isn't it." She stood with head bowed for a moment, and then looked up at him from under her brows. "I'm sorry you've given me a quite unfounded bad reputation, as well." The stress upon the word 'unfounded' was light, but its presence could not be denied. She looked up at him, half-closing one eye, and peering down her nose at Harry. The boy's jaw clenched tight. There were many ways to describe Ginny's nose. He'd pondered several of them- but, he was forced to admit, however, that it was not really a nose built for looking past down at people. Such noses ought to be thin, aquiline, and ideally somewhat pointed. Ginny's was none of those things- and- and he realised belatedly that his concentration of attention upon said miniature proboscis had just cost him his opportunity to defend himself.

She half-stepped forward, pressing a hand against the centre of his chest, and her eyes flashed. "It seems to me, Mr Potter, that I must restore my honour," she observed, drawing her wand from one sleeve, and lightly tapping it against his cheek. "Thursday's DA meeting," she told him, firmly. "Be there."

"Well, I'd better be," Harry raised his eyebrows. "I don't think it'd look too good if I missed the first practice of term, would it?"

"I'll be waiting," Ginny told him sternly, slipping her wand through her belt.

"So I should hope- you're one of my seconds in command, remember." He tutted. "I'd hate to have to discipline you." Slowly, Harry looked her up and down, and, just as Ginny's mouth started to open, added, "On the other hand..."

Ginny spluttered, and leant back against the doorframe, covering her reddening face with one hand. The Boy Who Lived gave a distinctly evil laugh, and darted down the side staircase towards the entrance hall. "I win!" He transfigured his schoolbag into a cushion and swung it on to the banister, launching himself down the stairs on it as he heard Ginny's feet running behind him.

"Just you try it, Potter!" he heard her yell, eschewing the banister and casting a levitation charm on her feet and back, Ginny simply leant backwards, folding her arms, and slid feet first down the stairway, three feet above the steps, propelling herself with a repulsion charm. Harry glanced back. She was catching him up. Still, two-thirds down, he jabbed his own wand forwards, selecting a particularly immovable looking statue of Godric Gryffindor on the far side of the hall, and favouring it with a Summoning Charm to accelerate his own descent.

"Come back here, you toad-eyed engine of destruction!" Ginny twisted round the corner half-way down, just as Harry hurriedly cancelled his Summoning Charm and leapt from the banister, catching his cushion half-way through its own reversion to schoolbag status, and dropping to the floor, a half-dozen wildly aimed repulsor curses stabilising him and braking his momentum, allowing him to land, spinning slightly, and reeling, on the balls of his feet. His glasses dangled from one ear.

"Victory!"

"Ah, to be sure, that's a good thing to be hearing, Mr Potter." Professor Milner stepped out from under the staircase, and steadied Harry as the boy regained his balance. "I wasnae after thinkin' that Voldemort leprechaun'd fox you for long, laddie..." he noted.

"Look out!"

"Gah!" Harry had one momentary glimpse, over Milner's shoulder, of Ginny, levitating down the stairs feet first like a battering ram at some utterly absurd velocity, flailing about with her wand, attempting to brake her headlong flight, the soles of her shoes levelled straight at Milner's unfortunately interposed back, and then instinct took over, and he seized the Dark Arts Professor, dragging him to one side, ignoring Milner's questioning grunt as Ginny flashed past, seizing Harry's arm and turning her flight into a spin, grabbing hold of Milner's nearest arm to steady herself, and pulling them all round with her. He groaned, staggering and catching hold of the end of the banister rail for support. After a moment, in which a distinctly giddy Ginny sat down rather heavily on the bottom step, and attempted to re-organise her inner ear, Milner shook his heavy head like a dog emerging from water, and rubbed his eyes.

"I didn't even _think_ about hexing either of you...!" he protested, and looked sideways at Harry. "And I'm not _entirely_ sure that sliding down the banisters is... absolutely one hundred percent in accordance with school rules, Mr Potter, hmm?"

"Sorry, Professor." Harry bit his lip. Milner regarded him sternly for a moment, and then drew his wand. Two wands instantly flicked out to counter it- both- Ginny's in particular- wavering slightly, their tips describing faintly glowing circles in the air. The thaumaturgist's eyebrows rose, and he pointed his wand at his own head, swishing it gently. With a soft pop, a hat appeared atop his cranium- a black cap, somewhat ill-fitting, surmounted by a flat, square board, covered in dark fabric, with a black tassle dangling from the middle of it.

"Tut-tut," Milner folded his arms, and tapped one foot. "Threatening to attack a poor teacher as well, Mr Potter." His eyes rolled upwards. "Now this, laddie, and lassie," he added, giving a courtly bow to Ginny, "Although for the mind o' me I canna ken why anyone should be after namin' a young filly after some Aussie dog, can you, sheila? Now, this," he drawled, pointing up at his head again, "Can you tell what it is yet? Well, I'll tell ya, ok? This is a mortar board. Muggle teachers don't wear 'em. Mainly because they'd look bloody silly if they did. Anyway, I like to wear it sometimes. I find a silly hat makes people forget about a silly head, don't you think, Harry?" He vanished the hat again, and wandered across the hallway, carefully not stepping on any cracks in the tiles- not the easiest task. Any floor which has withstood a thousand years of schoolchildren, not to mention several decades of Hagrid, was practically a textbook example of cracked tiles, and the floor of the entrance hall was no exception.

"As I was saying..." Milner raised a finger didactically. He paused, and cocked his head on one side. "Aren't you two a bit late up?"

"We were- busy--"

"-- went to bed late--"

"--working--"

"Now, now," he frowned. "That won't do at all, will it? Early to bed, early to rise, as the saying goes." Milner looked at them. "Still, it's good to see so much boundless energy and enthusiasm. Why," he bounced on the balls of his feet, "It's enough to make one feel happy to be alive." He paused, and sniffed.

"Still, being late for breakfast, now, that's not good, is it, no, not good at all, my precious... how are we to fight the forces of evil if we haven't had our Weetabix, Harry?" he gazed at the boy in deep concern, and then frowned, holding the sleeve of his jacket to his nose. "Life is a learning experience, young kiddywinks, and we all have something to learn." He gestured towards the Great Hall. "You have to learn if young Ronald has eaten all the toast before you got up..." He paused. A distinct, mothball-like smell was rising in waves from his jacket. "And I... apparently, have to learn _never_ to buy used cleaning charms from a shop in Knockturn Alley. Ever." He started back up the stairs, holding his nose, and almost causing Ginny to choke as he passed her. "I shall see you both in class later," Milner murmured, almost inaudibly, and, indeed, now almost invisible, a thick, broiling green vapour beginning to ascend from his jacket pockets. "I will not, however, be wearing this suit."

Harry and Ginny looked at each other.

"Good morning, Professor Milner," they resignedly chanted as one, in the sing-song chorus beloved of school classes across the planet, taking each other's hands and going in to breakfast.

* * *

"Harry, get this damned bird off me!" 

"Mr _Weasley!"_ Professor McGonagall rose to her feet, bristling, her rebuke, though far more quietly spoken, carrying across the hall in every measure quite as effectively as Ron's own angry yell, for all McGonagall's voice, coming from the High Table, had to travel almost two-thirds as far again.

In a way, Harry was quite grateful. In the ordinary way of things, he rather suspected he and Ginny would have managed to make a somewhat unfortunately grand entrance, hand in hand, fashionably late as they were. As it was, although a few heads turned- and Harry was sure he caught something venomous muttered from the direction of the Slytherin table- most swiftly turned back to the middle of the hall, curious to see how Harry would react to the tableau unfolding. Even as it was, he suspected from the brief flash he'd seen, and the glint in Colin Creevey's eyes, that the January 1997 edition of the Harry Potter calendar now had its photograph ready and waiting.

"Sorry, Profe-ow-professor..." Ron was half-standing on one bench, arms raised over his head, and struggling with an airborne sulk of snowy-white feathers, her beak currently firmly clamped on one of the boy's hands. He shook his hand desperately, and, seeing his sister and his best friend still waiting in the doorway, both equally bemused, groaned. "Harry, will you get over here?"

"Did _you _sleep all right, by the way?" Ginny asked, in a level voice, still unmoving, flicking her eyes across to meet his.

"Not too badly," Harry returned quietly. "Looks like we're going to need it. It's going to be one of _those _days. Come on, let's get it over with."

Ginny gave his hand a light squeeze, and released it, as the two of them hurried quickly up the side of the Gryffindor table. Meanwhile, Hermione, seated next to Ron, had pulled him back down into his seat. With a sharp cry of somewhat smug satisfaction, Hedwig released Harry's friend's now bleeding hand, and settled on a chandelier over Neville's head. Somewhat surreptitiously, not wishing to offend Harry further after the morning's incidents, Neville shuffled to one side.

"It's your own fault," Hermione scolded Ron crossly. "How do you expect a post owl to react if you try to steal her mail?"

"I wasn't trying to steal it," Ron protested- in response to a raised eyebrow and quizzical look from Harry, who was now attempting to coax Hedwig- and a fair-sized bundle of Harry's post- down from the chandelier. The red-haired boy was uncomfortably aware of Professor McGonagall's eyes boring into his back, not to mention an undercurrent of somewhat scurrilous amusement going round the hall. "I was just..." he flapped one hand. "Oh... well, look, it made sense at the time, all right?"

Ginny eyed the infuriated Hedwig speculatively, as Harry looked around and removed the last piece of toast from Ron's plate, holding it up towards the owl enticingly. Hedwig regarded it scornfully for a moment, and swivelled her head away.

"Oh, that's just great, that is," Ron folded his arms in disgust. "I don't know why I even bothered with breakfast."

"One piece of toast, Ron," Harry protested. "What on earth did you do to Hedwig, anyway? She's furious." He looked concernedly at the bird. He knew Ron would never hurt her on purpose- but the owl had a fierce light in her eyes now, and was deliberately and rather pointedly crushing small pieces of crystal on the chandelier with her talons. The thought occurred to Harry that, in all likelihood, Dumbledore would make him pay for it. "Come on, Hedwig," he proffered the toast again, "Stop that..."

"Oh, yeah, one bit of toast," Ron huffed, brandishing his wounded hand. "After two slices of bacon, the egg she trod on, most of Hermione's cereal..." He waved the hand at Hermione by way of demonstration, almost inadvertently punching her in the nose as he did so, and cradled it in his uninjured hand instead. The Slytherin table appeared to consist of one large snide comment with sixty-eight bodies- even Blaise was unable to keep a somewhat gleeful smirk from her features. Mind you, Ginny realised, the same was true of half of Ravenclaw, and more than a few Hufflepuffs.

_Being public property is something I could get tired of very quickly. Yes. Already, in fact._

"Why do you think I was trying to grab her letters in the first place? I thought if I got hold of them she might stop nicking other people's food for a minute... oww!" he flinched, as the cold glass of his watch-face pressed into the cut.

"Don't be such a baby- Ron, will you keep still?" Hermione caught his wrist in one hand. "It's not deep." She waved a Clotting Charm over the small wound, and the blood flow began to ease. Ginny put out a hand to Hedwig, who had finally consented to descend, mainly in order to drop a small pile of post on Harry's still-empty breakfast plate- and hurriedly drew it back as the still somewhat offended bird rapped her talons warningly on the table.

"You see?" Ron gestured towards Hedwig again. "Oh... sorry, Mi."

"Don't mention it," Hermione responded in an exasperated monotone, taking hold of Ron's hand again and stroking his fingers. Neville and Colin, looking round curiously, both immediately turned away, and began discussing the new year's Quidditch season with a fervour even Seamus or Michael Corner would have been hard pressed to match.

"You don't ever- ever- try to take post from someone else's owl unless you're sure you've got permission," Ginny explained to Harry. "Mum says both Fred and George nearly lost fingers trying to steal Dad's letters from Errol when they were younger." She stopped, her expression quizzical, and slowly followed the direction of Harry's amused gaze.

Ron, still eyeing Hedwig in a fairly unfriendly fashion, for all the owl had now condescended to come to Ginny and accept Neville's cereal by way of apology, winced suddenly, as his friend pulled his fingers straight, and looked round, eyes widening and face flushing in alarm. He half-snatched his hand away, and then looked desperately at the floor. "Hermione... what are you doing? Not that I mind or anything," he added, hastily, pulling the hand back for a moment, looking at it in some confusion, "I mean, go on, it feels nice, and... well, I reckon... you know, what we said over Christmas..." He rather awkwardly proffered the offending collection of digits to her again, and watched her with the air of a small trapped rodent.

"Blood circulates for a reason, Ron," Hermione gave him a level look. "You wouldn't stop waving your hand about, and I ended up casting the Clotting Charm over several of your fingers." She took the hand again- although somewhat more clinically than before, Ginny noted, and continued to rub the fingers carefully. "I take it you _don't_ want them to turn black and fall off?" Hermione looked up at him questioningly, and nodded. "No, I didn't think so. Of course, if it makes you uncomfortable I'm sure Ginny would be happy to..."

"No thanks!" Ron actually jumped, and pulled his hand back again, sending a nervous glance Ginny's way. "You don't want to see her trying to do first aid," he shuddered.

"What are you talking about?" Ginny protested.

"Don't think I've forgotten what happened when you broke your ankle that time," her brother retorted, offering his hand to Hermione again, who took it absently, beginning to massage the fingers again with one hand, turning the pages of her newspaper with the other. "Don't get me wrong, Gin, you're a fantastic witch- but you..." he hesitated, frowning. "Well," he finished, his face clearing, "Basically, you're nuts."

Ginny's mouth dropped open, and she set the flat of one hand against her chest in the very image of one wrongly accused.

"Psychotic? Moi?"

"Mm," Ron nodded, in the midst of a swig of pumpkin juice. "Stark raving bonkers."

"Must run in the family, then," she retorted.

"If it does, then I'd like to know which of your cousins is working for Witch Weekly," Harry exclaimed in sudden disgust, throwing one particular letter down on the table. He had first flicked through his small collection of post at speed, scanning handwriting and envelopes with a quick, intense stare, and then, seemingly not finding what he was looking for, had settled into a more leisurely pace. Most of the post was fairly mundane- the answers to a couple of queries he'd made in Diagon Alley a few weeks ago, a short note from the twins, thanking him for his offer of help in reconstructing Weasley's Wizard Wheezes- he'd been worried about that, remembering how awkward Ron could sometimes feel about accepting any sort of financial help, but it seemed that Fred and George were both willing, albeit perhaps a little dubiously, to take his claim of a certain amount of responsibility at face value. Finally, he'd come to a small, green envelope emblazoned with a corporate logo.

"I didn't know you read it," Ginny observed dryly.

"I'm fairly sure the cookery column's run by a Death Eater," Harry retorted in a deadpan tone, looking quizzically at her from over the tops of his spectacles. Then he sighed, and flicked his hair out of his eyes. "Voldemort might be editing it too." He picked up the letter, and scanned through it, occasionally glancing up at his girlfriend as he read. The -by now mostly empty- plates and cups began to disappear, flickering down to the kitchens below. Neville departed at a run, with a few angry imprecations against Dobby, as his schoolbag, unfortunately resting adjacent to an empty teapot, vanished along with the crockery.

"Dear Mr Potter... we are delighted to offer the opportunity... a full interview with our top correspondent... full length glossy feature article on life, love, and education at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the modern age, seen from the viewpoint of one of the most celebrated young people in the wizarding world today..."

"Are they going to be taking photographs?" Lavender Brown crouched between Ron and Seamus. "I'd give anything to be in Witch Weekly," she beckoned Parvati over, practically corralling the other girl into the huddle. "They could show pictures of your classes, or of the Common Room and your friends... Sybil says it's never a matter of what you know, it's who."

"She said Witch Weekly was a horrible, shabby little publication with no inner eye!" Parvati protested.

"She also said that anybody who's anybody reads it," Lavender retorted. "It's all right for you- some of us want to go into business on our own when school's finished. I want to sell Charms," she added, loudly, for the benefit of anyone attempting to remain on the edges of earshot. "Oh, say yes, Harry. Then I could put "As Featured in Witch Weekly" in the advertisement... come on, please..."

"Isn't that a bit dishonest?" Ron scratched his head with his free hand. "Wouldn't it be implying you'd had your Charms featured in Witch Weekly, or something? Not just that there'd been a blurred picture of you staring at tea leaves in the corner while someone talks to Harry?"

"Oh, well, if you're going to be like that," Lavender pulled a face at him, and then a thoughtful look crossed her eyes. "Although why not?" She looked at Harry for a moment. "You know there's a charm that can make spectacles nearly unbreakable, don't you? I could always..."

"He knows," Hermione observed in an abstracted tone, not looking up from the Daily Prophet. "I showed it to him last January."

Lavender's face fell.

"Still, if you're going to be photographed, you'll want to look your best, won't you?" she added, with slightly more of an edge to her voice. "It's thoroughly outmoded and sexist, the way Witch Weekly always behaves as if Glamours and soft-focus charms are just for girls." She appealed to Hermione. "After all, we spend hours and hours making ourselves look beautiful for men- and what do they do? Wash their faces and maybe remember to tie their shoelaces?" Ginny lifted her brows slightly, and then arched one of them meaningfully at Harry. The boy gave her a questioning look, deepening to slight anxiety as Ginny held her gaze. Finally, with a flicker of annoyance, Harry leant back on his bench, peering at his shoes under the table, making certain. He nodded, and looked up again, to meet a triumphant glint in Ginny's eye.

"It's not as if there aren't some perfectly suitable Glamours for men available already now," Lavender was warming to her theme, "So," she added to Hermione, "I know Harry listens to you- don't you think it would be a great step forward, a great blow for equality if, in his interview, when the interviewer mentions how handsome he's grown up to be-" Harry, in turn, raised one eyebrow questioningly at Ginny, who assumed a slightly dubious expression, "Well... if he could say that both he and Ginny use glamour charms prepared by one of their classmates? They needn't actually name anyone, of course- that might be a bit crass," she admitted, "But I'm sure people would be able to make the connection..."

Hermione smoothed flat the page of her newspaper, and looked up.

"Alternatively," she observed, the fingers of her free hand stroking lightly over one unadorned eyebrow, "Wouldn't men and women still be equal if _neither _of us wasted time and magic painting our faces? I'd hope any man I wanted to think I was beautiful would be intelligent enough to see through a Glamour, anyway."

"Well, that, Hermione Granger, is why _I_ have a boyfriend, and..." Lavender trailed off, looking down at the table, and Ron and Hermione's entangled fingers. "Oh," she swallowed quietly, and put her palm over her face. For a moment, Lavender Brown said nothing. Then she sighed, and looked up at Harry. "All right, I'm making a total prat of myself, aren't I?"

"Just a bit," Seamus groaned from beside her. Lavender blushed.

"I promise not to mention this conversation to anyone," Harry told her solemnly. Lavender eyed him dubiously for a moment, and then nodded. Ron stifled a snigger. "That goes for Ron as well," Harry added absently, having taken advantage of Hermione's momentary distraction to browse through several pages of her newspaper. After a moment's thought, he raised his voice slightly louder, and observed, for the benefit of a number of students who'd stopped to listen to the exchange on their way to class, "It also goes for anyone else who happened to be eavesdropping, for that matter. I'm still trying to decide how to divide people up for the DA this term. Anyone feeling brave enough to start spreading this around is _probably_ brave enough to be sparring with Ginny next week, I think." Several students- including Parvati, Padma, Dean, and Seamus, hurriedly left. Harry sat back, and put his hands behind his head, a satisfied smile forming on his lips. "Ah, power." Lavender fled, thoroughly confused.

"Yes- _my_ power," Ginny grinned at him, getting to her feet as Luna made her way across from the Ravenclaw table. "Which you'll have to do without for a while, as some of us have got classes to go to." She turned rather hurriedly, attempting to reach Luna before the other girl came close enough to notice Ron and Hermione's clasped hands. Ron coughed- not withdrawing his fingers from the girl's grip, but shifting his shoulders awkwardly.

"We ought to be moving too, 'Mi," he began, half-heartedly. "Um..."

"Yes, just a _minute,_ Ron," Hermione frowned, smoothing her paper flat again. "You can go if you want to- look at this, Harry." She pointed at an article on the fifth page. "That might be the end of our hold on Rita. The Ministry's considering an amnesty for all unregistered Animagi."

Harry frowned.

"Seems a bit odd. I'd have thought they'd be tightening security now." Especially, he reflected, given what he'd learned from Blaise.

"Not really," she shook her head. "They must know there are a few unregistered Animagi around. It makes sense to do something like this, to separate those who are only breaking the law out of habit from those who are unregistered because they're planning to use their Animagus forms against the government. It might persuade a few people who've only stayed unregistered because they're frightened of being prosecuted to come forward. According to the editorial there's quite a few measures in the pipeline." She ran her finger down the page. "I suppose even the Ministry couldn't sit quiet and do nothing after what happened after Christmas."

"Something's up," Ron agreed. "Dad was telling me they're pulling in a lot of people for extra hours at work now. Still no word on what it's going to be- apparently Amelia Bones has been sending about three Howlers a day to Umbridge's office though." He looked at Harry. "Anything from Dumbledore?"

Harry shook his head.

"I'm going to go and see him tomorrow." He hesitated. His two friends were both attempting to tidy their things away, ready to get up and head off to class- each one doing as much as they could one-handedly, to delay the moment when they would have to face the other and ask for their other hand back. He wasn't entirely sure if it was the fear of mentioning the contact to each other, or the desire to prolong it, which was chiefly responsible for encouraging them to postpone the moment. "I'll get some answers out of him one way or another..." Harry drew breath. Well, the Unholy Trinity had been together for a long time. He wondered for a moment just how things would be for Ron and Hermione, if there was no Harry there to drag them into fire and chaos. The answer, the other half of his brain supplied somewhat waspishly, was that the two of them might be a good deal safer, but they probably wouldn't even be speaking to each other.

How many years was it that Dumbledore had kept him waiting for the truth?

"I... need to see the two of you first though," he said, with a final sigh. Ron's eyes met his shrewdly, and, out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw his two friends' grips on one another's hands relax. The three of them agreed to meet after classes that afternoon, and, lifting Hedwig on to one wrist, Harry made his way back down the aisle towards the doors- somewhat uncomfortably aware from the eyes of various portraits on his back that all three of them were now a few minutes late. He frowned as he walked. There really wasn't any other way. Ron had as much right to know as Ginny did- and, he reflected honestly, he needed both their advice. Besides, if everything went as he hoped it would, it wouldn't be long before he'd have a big enough secret to keep from the both of them anyway. He didn't want to add to it.

* * *

"That's strange." Luna looked almost worried as she shifted in her seat. "Uncle Aloysius always says you should spring an ambush no more than four seconds after the person you're planning to ambush starts to suspect it." She looked at her watch again, and frowned. Ginny shrugged. 

"He did say he was having to change his suit." She considered, idly trailing her wand through the air. "Maybe it isn't a trap after all." Two rows behind them, Marigold Marchebanks looked at her watch, and grumbled. She'd been the recipient of several dockings of house points from Professor Milner for late arrivals last term, a fact which she was bitterly recounting to some of her friends now. The Ravenclaw girls were busy trying to make a quill fly- something Ginny would have found interesting if she hadn't privately suspected the final intention was to have the quill, laden with ink, fly at Luna's back. Instead, Ginny was privately choosing the most appropriate hex to encourage them to do something else. Having settled on an Engorgius Babeltongue Curse, she deliberately turned her back on them, facing forward. If she allowed her eyes to lose focus, and stopped letting herself be distracted by what she could _see_, she could feel that quill, bobbing and wavering in the air somewhere behind her, feel the imperfect quiver of the magic. She could even, if she wished, she realised, with a sudden start of fascination, see the mistakes in the charm, and how best to plug the gaps. Of course, she reminded herself acerbically, even as her fingers reached for her wand, she was supposed to be trying to _break_ the spell, not complete it- but there was a sort of lure there, in unfinished, badly applied magic.

Ginny opened one of her books and peered unseeing down at it. It was- she remembered the expression Harry had described Milner using during their Advanced Magical Theory classes- the 'sound' of sorcery, a harmony with two or three notes out of place. She shook her shoulders. It made the fingers _itch_, feeling the jarring clumsiness of an imperfect spell, and that exasperating desire to see it put right was almost stronger than her own personal desire to firmly swat all but one of the fifth year Ravenclaw girls- the Sparrow Squadron, as Clare Jacques had rather bad-temperedly named them once- out of a high window. She drummed her fingers on the desk. It was the same thing Hermione felt, she realised then, when Harry or Ron came to her with some illiterate and illogical apology for an essay- on the one hand, she wanted them to do their own work... but, on the other hand, the temptation to put things write, to correct mistakes and finish the job properly, for aesthetics' sake as much as anything else, was surprisingly strong.

The red-haired girl sighed to herself, and looked over at Luna, now oblivious, deep in contemplation of a large spider half-way up one wall of the Dark Arts classroom. On Ginny's other side, Colin was idly sketching in the margin of an exercise book. Ginny craned her neck as inconspicuously as possible. What was that he was drawing...? Oh. She stifled a chuckle. A lightning bolt. A rather... familiar lightning bolt. Drawings of it had decorated the gaps in enough of her essays over the years, after all, idly wandering from the subconscious to the writing hand, and then causing her to stop, staring down at the parchment in acute embarrassment, and hoping against hope that whichever teacher had the misfortune of marking the piece of work in question would either not make the connection, or not care. Even after she'd put the crush behind her, she'd still occasionally drawn it. It was a matter of habit, as much as anything else. With a quill in her hand, and parchment before her, and nothing else to do... her hand froze, and, with a faint sinking feeling, Ginny looked down at the paper before her, closed her eyes for a second in resignation, and then glanced back at Colin's book for a moment.

_Well, mine's better drawn, anyway._

She resisted the temptation to add in either one of a pair of green eyes beneath the lightning bolt on her own sketch, and instead looked over at Luna, who now appeared to be measuring the spider from afar, using her wand as a yardstick. At that moment, she felt a flurry of magic behind her, and reached for her wand, as the Ravenclaws' quill started its bombing run.

"Revolutus," Luna jabbed her wand suddenly backwards, and the floating quill spun, splashing ink out in a circle over the Sparrow Squadron. The little group of stained conspirators yelled, one hurriedly casting a drying spell on the nib, while another grounded the quill with a curse- but not before assorted indigo stains decorated their robes. One half-rose to her feet, eyeing Luna- who blinked in a fashion that suggested she hadn't really thought through the next stage of her little gesture of defiance- in distinctly unfriendly fashion- and the classroom door swung open.

"Greetings, top of the mornin' to ye, and all that jazz," Professor Milner arrived, looking round the class with eyes which revealed nothing. Ginny narrowed her own. The man had changed his clothes, and at the collar of the open-necked shirt he wore now, she could clearly see a small black stone, hexagonal, the size of a large fingernail, suspended at his throat on a thin leather cord. Wordlessly, her eyes flickered to Luna's own throat, and then back- where Milner's eyes caught and held hers for a moment, his face suddenly sly. For a long moment, the world seemed silent. Then, the thaumaturgist loudly deposited his baggage- including the wooden case in which she'd seen him bring the Thaumometer to Dumbledore's office last December, and two small cages full of newts- on his desk.

"Ye'll be minded to forgive me being a wee bit on the tardy side, no?" Milner straightened his belongings. "That there Severus Snape'd talk the hind leg of a cobra if he could, sometimes, I tell ye. At any road," he added, putting his hands on the desk and leaning forward over it, suddenly serious, "I'm not half so late as this lesson is. Far be it from me to suggest that a mad Death Eater has a better idea of what should be on the curriculum than the Ministry of Magic's chief amphibian... but, yes," he paused, nodding, "Actually that's exactly what I'm suggesting, isn't it. Silly me. Ten points from Ravenclaw." Several groans drifted round the classroom- and a moment's bright steel shone through watery eyes. "However," Milner went on, taking his wand from his pockets- and now Ginny felt a shudder flowing through her like a living thing. As she looked at the wand, and felt the magic entwining in it, the room seemed to grow colder, smaller, the pale winter sunlight from without giving no warmth. "... However, I had to be getting your permission slips from our charming Headmaster first- not to mention demonstrating that I'm a fit person to cast the spells in a responsible fashion, naturally," his sizeable nose twitched. "Hence the slight delay. Nothing a little pokery-jiggery or thereabouts with a time-turner couldn't fix, of course- but I'm of that terribly old fashioned breed that don't _really_ think that punctuality's important enough to risk destroying the entire space/time continuum for. Very sloppy of me, of course, most lackadaisical. However however, never mind." The Professor took a deep breath.

"You are hear to learn how to defend yourself against the Dark Arts. Define defence, Miss Weasley," his eyes locked with hers. "In your own time, of course. Ideally less than twenty seconds of it."

"Stopping your enemy's attack?"

"Good, very good indeed- and only incorrect in one particular... Miss Lovegood?"

Luna sat up.

"Simply blocking an opponent wastes your energy as well as theirs," she told Milner primly. "Although Shield Charms are both popular and usually unavoidable, the best form of defence is one which renders an opponent's attack useless, whilst minimising the kinetic..."

"Aye, thank'ee lassie. We'll no be needin' the key to the attic unless the door's locked, I'm thinking," Milner cut in hastily. "Still, what Miss Lovegood's talking about there makes good sense. You cannae know how best to be dealin' with an unfriendly spell unless you know the spell first. Now... how'd you go about doing that?" He walked slowly through the classroom. "It all comes back to strategy, doesn't it, Mr Arbuthnott?" he demanded of one portly Gryffindor. "What's your opponent going to do next? Why? How? You'll no be gettin' too far wi' that one unless you know what you're in for when you fight him, will you?" He returned to the front desk, and lowered his brow, seeming to look directly at the three of them- Luna, Ginny, and Colin, in the front row.

"So tonight, when your little imaginary friends ask you what you did at school today, you'll be able to tell them that that nice Professor Milner taught you about the Unforgivable Curses, won't you? Isn't that nice?"

* * *

**Review Responses:**

**Erised Burning:** Thanks, again, for some interesting thoughts and comments. On the Dursleys- well, I'm not quite finished with the family yet, but I was deliberately going for 'low key' with this parting. I did try a version with rather higher emotional levels at first- but, after the battle Harry had just been through, in addition to the magnitude of Petunia's decision for her, it didn't feel right.

There is a reason behind the Amoeba Vendetta. I agree, it seems a fairly daft way of trying to kill Harry... but there was a reason for it. The quartet will ponder this quite soon, so I shan't discuss it in any more detail now.

As for the prose style... I can only agree, I'm afraid. My sentences do tend to run away with themselves- and it's an undeniable truth that I occasionally get too wrapped up in playing with language to remember that the language has to be functional first, and aesthetically complex second. This is a tendency I try to keep down- but it's usually going to appear to a certain degree from time to time.

**Emeric Switch:** Ah, good, excellent. The Easter holidays may possibly be spent with the Grangers (I'm still uncertain as to whether that would be credible or not, given the state the country in general and the Quartet in particular are going to be in by April, if all goes to plan). Ron will have to do battle with a microwave.

**Merari: **Thanks :-) Updates seem to be irregular, but hopefully shouldn't ever be longer than a month apart now, and that only in cases of extreme writer's block.

**Chia the Cat: **Well, thank you. I can't comment on the comparison with JKR, not having yet read HBP for reasons I mentioned a couple of chapters ago. One thing I am determined on though, is that I'm not going to try to pull a convergence. Things like Horcruxes, that Slughorn bloke, and so on, will not be appearing here- not because I necessarily don't like them, but just because they don't fit. Character deaths and injuries will remain as they were going to be before 31st July last year, and so on.

**Wolf's Scream: **Chapter Forty-five was a real pain to write, after the battle and emotional hi-jinks of the previous few chapters, but I'm quite pleased with how it came out. The biggest problem, actually, was trying to prevent Blaise and Ginny's personalities overlapping too much- bizarre, given that they're really not anything like each other, but with the structure making them both react to the same things, it became a problem at times. The battle of Diagon Alley, on the other hand, followed by the showdowns in Privet Drive and so on, were great fun to do, so glad you liked them!

**PhoenixFlight72: **I hope there won't ever be another gap sans-update of that length again! As for how long I'll keep writing it, and long stories in general- it's difficult to say. At a rough guess, I'd say "The Sound of Sorcery" will end up being somewhere between 60 to 80 chapters long. I know everything I plan to happen between now and the end, in what order, and roughly when- but how long it'll take to describe it best is still somewhat up in the air. Welcome back, and glad you're still enjoying the story!


	47. Unforgivable

**Chapter Forty-Seven:** Unforgivable

"Have I ever used them?" The Professor eyed the source of the question- a tall Ravenclaw boy with a mouth a little too quick for his mind, and tapped his foot. "Well, here's the Auror inquisition, and no mistake. Mind, given what went on with young Crouch, ye've a right to ask, when one of your teachers starts up about yon Unforgivables, I do suppose." He turned, walking to the blackboard, and, slowly, fumbled a piece of chalk from his pocket. Ginny could feel the impatience seething around her. It wasn't that anyone actually _wanted_ to use the Curses- at least, she hoped not- but, when it came down to it, they all knew well enough that what they were coming to now was, more or less, the whole nub of Defence Against the Dark Arts, and she could feel the excitement building. Milner wrote "Imperius" on the blackboard, and underlined it.

Then, too, of course, there was something... deliciously forbidden about the Unforgivable Curses. Natural- and tautological- enough, she reflected, with a ghost of a smile. She supposed she might fairly be said to feel that more than the rest of them, having had both more experience of the curses, and from her connection with the Oath. She'd sworn that for Harry's sake- and because of the sick horror she'd felt in her mind when she'd felt the Killing Curse in the walls of Grimmauld Place that night. The horror was still with her now- but all the same, the knowledge of such a powerful magic, something so... final, that was forbidden- that in itself was enough to seem like a lure, a song, a voice in the back of the head. Touch me. Cast me. Feel me. There had been nights, those long and terrible nights after Percy had died, when she had been glad of the Oath. It had been the only restriction left to her, to know that to cast the spell would cause pain to Ron. She could feel it in them now, as the teacher carefully inscribed "Cruciatus" below "Imperius", and underlined the second word in turn. Mingled excitement and horror.

"Avada Kedavra," Milner wrote laboriously, and underlined it- after a moment grimly adding a small caricature of a bat as a form of punctuation. Then his chalk lifted, and he tapped at the blackboard next to the word "Imperius".

"Aye, this one, the Imperius Curse, from time to time- in the laboratory," Milner added, seeing a few shocked looks around the classroom. "It's been necessary, at one time or another. You have to have consent forms signed and the like, of course- and no end of observers present to make sure no one's taking any liberties or anything- but some of the most vital work in learning ways of resisting it wouldn't have been possible if no one ever got the chance to feel what it's like under controlled conditions." He frowned for a moment, seeming to dismiss a bad memory, and looked thoughtfully at the other words on the blackboard.

"What about the Cruciatus Curse?" Colin asked, without thinking. A half dozen faces turned towards him, a number of scathing comments starting to be uttered- and stopped. Professor Milner had started, and twitched his nose reflexively, before angrily pinching at the bridge of it with finger and thumb. He considered for a moment, his eyes wandering idly into the middle distance- and then turned back to Colin, his face sombre.

"Once," he said, in a quiet voice, seating himself on the edge of the desk. "For..." Milner produced a silver fob watch from one pocket and consulted it briefly. "... One minute and twenty-seven seconds precisely." He returned the watch to his pocket, tapping it as it slipped in, and straightened his jacket, before thrusting both his hands into his pockets and gazing absently up at the massive skeleton suspended from the classroom ceiling.

"During the last war," the Professor's voice was slow and calm, now, and devoid of his usual affectations, "The Death Eaters made extensive use of the Cruciatus Curse. It's so much... more satisfying, to see someone you hate screaming with agony- to leave them twisted, driven mad and dying from pain, than just to outright kill them. There's the irony of the Avada Kedavra, of course- it was made as the ultimate killing curse, but it's really a terribly cowardly way to remove someone you don't like," he mused, then shook his head, returning his mind to the subject at hand. "After the war, the Ministry were left with more than a few people badly hurt- sometimes permanently damaged- by what the Cruciatus had done to them."

Ginny nodded to herself, and glanced across at Luna. Both were fully aware of what had become of Frank and Alice Longbottom, and others besides. The class was rapt and silent, even the Sparrow Squadron's attention drawn by Milner's frank admission- and the sombre look in his eyes. Luna, though, Ginny realised in surprise, wore an altogether different expression to her classmates, her hands interwoven tightly on the desk in front of her, and her eyes downcast, shifting from side to side. Hesitantly, the red-haired girl reached out a hand to the mousy one, touching her shoulder lightly. Luna started in her seat, half twisting away- but turned her head, giving Ginny a brief, grateful glance, before looking away again. Ginny looked up- and met Milner's eyes. The teacher appraised her for a moment, and then his sad eyes fell on Luna.

"We- my department- were trying to learn more about the curse," he told the class slowly, beginning to move, walking forward down the aisle between the rows of desks, drawing the students' eyes away from the upset girl as he did. "At that time there wasn't much known about its effects- or the magic- so after a couple of months getting nowhere, someone spoke up and said what, I suppose, we'd all come to realise but not quite dared to say- that we were only going to get to learn anything about Cruciatus if we could see it in action." He reached the back of the class, and turned, leaning on one of the glass-fronted supply cabinets. "I was the head of department- and I couldn't exactly ask anyone else to cast _that_ on someone." Ginny started to open her mouth, and Milner's hand flashed up, one finger raised in a familiar didactic gesture. "No, Miss Weasley, I don't agree," he chided her mirthlessly. "Believe me- unless you're _very_ far gone I'd say it's _far_ worse to have to be the one casting the Cruciatus on someone you care about than it is to be the one cursed." He shook his head, looking at his feet for a moment. "The lass who'd suggested we try casting it- protégé of mine- was the one who volunteered to have it tested on her. She felt responsible- for that, I mean." He gave a sudden bitter laugh, and Ginny, a chill flashing across her shoulders, looked quickly at her neighbour in a moment of realisation. Luna had drawn her knees up slightly under her desk, and was chewing her lip. The strange girl looked round then, turning to Milner with something like an appeal in her eyes. Looking back, Ginny saw Milner silently acknowledge Luna's look.

"Oh, it all went to plan," the Professor told them, and Luna, launching himself off from the cabinet and swinging his arms as he walked back to the front of the class, his voice growing louder, and more full of life with each step. "No harm done- to her or to me- and we learned a little- not enough, but as much as we could. It was the logical thing to do." He stepped up to his desk once more, and turned swiftly on the balls of his feet, the next words spoken in a low, bitter tone, "But there's very little I wouldnae be ready to do to avoid _ever_ doing that again."

Professor Milner cleared his throat, and spoke again, his voice loud and tinged with irony.

"That's the thing about Death Eaters- and all those of their sort, really, isn't it? It's not just what they do- it's what you find yourself forced to do in return if you want to stand a wizard's chance in a dragon's nest of stopping them." He fell silent, watching the class shrewdly. Slowly, one at a time, the fifth-year group turned to face him again, some faces bleak with understanding, others wide-eyed, shaken. Not one face, Ginny realised suddenly, wore any remaining enthusiasm for the prospect of experimenting with the Unforgivable Curses themselves. If anything remained, then it was an air of grim determination, a ghost of what she'd seen on Harry's face in battle on countless occasions. She met Milner's eyes again- and saw in his face the same analysis being made- and a faint hint of satisfaction. It was what he'd wanted them to feel.

"And, to be sure, I've never been after castin' yon Avada Kedavra on owt," the Professor added suddenly, loudly, beginning to open the cages of newts and pass out trays- a newt apiece, held by a simple restraining spell- on each. "Quite aside from anything else," he noted, with a certain wry grimness, "takes a muckle o'power to make that one strong enough to work. If it didnae' kill me in the castin', it's sure enough it'd knock me flat on my back for a week. There you are, lassie," he set the last tray down in front of Ginny. The newt eyed her dubiously. Milner was still moving, turning and stepping back- nearly tripping over his own briefcase as he did so, he shot out one hand and levelled it at one of the Sparrow Squadron. "Why's that important to know, Miss Gudgeon... and please take note that 'Because it shows Professor Milner is a wimp' is not going to be the right answer, on this occasion, hm? Five points from Slytherin for silently agreeing with me insulting myself, Mr Creevey."

"Um... I'm a Gryffindor..."

"Really?" Milner's head jerked forward, beaming broadly. "That's splendid, much better. Much less of an aroma of stale frog, I always think. Five points to Gryffindor for enlightening me... and three-point-one-four-one-five-nine, two-six-five points from Ravenclaw, Miss Gudgeon, for not answering my question while I was babbling on meaninglessly, hey?"

"Er." The hapless girl flinched. Ginny couldn't entirely blame her. Based on Harry and Ron's accounts of their lessons with the man, not to mention her encounters with him outside of class, she'd gained the impression that Professor Milner usually reined himself in somewhat, when teaching the fifth years and below, but today he seemed to have set that on one side entirely. Or perhaps it was the new term. Perhaps one term of relative sanity was all they were entitled to before the gloves came off.

"Well- it means that if a wizard or witch has casted an Unforgivable Curse at you, and you've managed to avoid it, then he or she's weakened themselves?" Gudgeon attempted- and Milner rocked back on his heels.

"Correct. Three-point-eight-six-two... no, hang on... three-point-one-five-four... no... all right, the same number of points to Ravenclaw awarded as I just took away." He grinned suddenly, and winked at Luna. "Better get it right, hadn't I? The Hufflepuff points vial actually exploded last December- all those fractions got too much for it- and guess which poor overworked Dark Arts teacher got lumbered with clearing up the mess? Imaginary numbers are a _pig_ to get out of the carpet, believe me, and, as I didn't say but should have done, well done, Miss Gudgeon. Take... note," he sat on the edge of the desk again. "The Unforgivable Curses use an enormous amount of power. Even the most powerful of wizards can't just blaze away with them non-stop. Know your enemy, and know the curse, and you stand a fair to middling to... well, not terribly good honestly but why spoil a good motivational speech sort of chance of knowing when he or she's not going to be able to cast the Avada Kedavra, to pick one spell out, oh, totally at random, say."

He paused for breath, then looked slowly over the class, each face in turn, his face serious again.

"Unfortunately there's only one real way you can appreciate that- and know the spell well enough- intimately enough, to use that sort of information." He drew his wand with a quick swish of one wrist, his poise cool and professional. "You have to try it out."

"But, Professor--" Colin began- and was overtaken by several dozen other voices, some shocked, some angry, others concerned. Ginny's eyes widened.

_I can't. I don't want to anyway- and I can't believe he'd ask us to... not on each other... but I can't._

She looked up at Milner, the man who tried so hard not to be trusted- perhaps so hard that people missed the genuinely untrustworthy things amidst the smokescreen?

_How am I meant to tell him that without letting him know about the Oath- and that's not just my secret, that's Harry, and Hermione, and Ron?_

Half the Sparrow Squadron had risen to their feet in protest. Milner stepped back, one eyebrow raised, and lifted his hands.

"Pax, pax, for goodness sake..." He twirled his wand in his hand. Silence fell, peoples' eyes magnetically drawn to that wand-tip, sparking, unpredictable. "I'm not going to have you experiment on each other... in fact," he grated, swinging the wand flat down on to his desk with a vivid tear of white light, "If I ever catch anyone in this school using an Unforgivable Curse on another student without a bloody good reason, then trust me, you won't be getting anywhere near Azkaban in one piece." He gestured around the room, the thunderous cloud seemingly faded from his brows. "Wha'd'ya figure the newts was for, kids?" Milner chewed a hypothetical cigar. "In-ter-ior re-dec-or-ation? Huh?" His voice returned to normal, and he pointed- with his wand- at another protesting voice. "You'll only be using the Imperius Curse," he responded to one angry comment. "Couldn't agree with you more, Miss Marchebanks. Personally gave my word to each newt. No harm to come, etc etc. Besides, funnily enough, although I'm sure you all adore Defence with a passion that borders on the inexplicable, and love your wonderful, clever, funny teacher... I'm still less than entirely comfortable with letting any of you lot fire off the Killing Curse anywhere near me, thanks all the same."

He opened his briefcase, and removed a slim manilla folder.

"Now then... Professor Dumbledore wrote to all of your parents- or guardians, in a couple of cases- elementary requirement, you know, hmm..." he pulled out a sheet of paper- Muggle paper, too thin and white to be wizarding parchment. "Yes, here we are. Several parents were unwilling to give permission, or couldn't be contacted..." he rapped his knuckles on the desk. "Which is rather convenient, actually. I think Miss Lovegood and Miss Weasley have seen this little contraption before..." Milner turned, and opened the slim wooden case, lifting out the complex double-tube of exploded wandwork that was the thaumometer Core. As before, Ginny noticed a careful reverence in how he handled the device, sweeping it slowly through the air. As it moved, the inner ring of wand cores began to revolve, the speckling of twisting light and magic within the core growing more apparent as it rippled and changed.

"Note the basic Hogwarts' magical field," Milner murmured, indicating the Core to the class. Ginny tilted her head, studying it in fascination. Last time, in Dumbledore's office, she'd seen it- but then she'd been too caught up in what they'd come there to do to give it the attention it deserved. She licked her lips, seeing the vortex of energy within the device, watching it writhe, and pulse, and flicker. She remembered the flying quill, remembered feeling that magic rise, prickling the back of her neck. Staring into the core, she slid one hand under the desk, and clenched her fist, feeling the tides of magical energy ebbing and flowing in her own body. She drew breath, seeming to see some faint flicker, a slight dancing twist, in the ambient field of the thaumometer. She breathed in again, drawing herself inward, as if preparing to cast a spell. This time she was almost sure. There it was, a faint flicker of violet fading to scarlet, out on one band of the helix.

_That's me._

Captivated, she tried again- and Milner turned, holding the core up to show it to the students at the back, his elbow blocking her view of the beautiful vortex.

"Don't be starin' at it for too long, will ye," he remarked, seemingly to everyone in general. "A wee bit _too_ easy on the eyes, she is, if you take my meaning." He lowered the core again. "Now, what I'm going to do is divide you into pairs- there should be a newt apiece there, I think you'll find- and one of you'll try casting the curse- don't worry if you don't get it first time- while the other- and this can include those whose parents don't want them actually hexing anyone themselves- and anyone who just plain doesn't want to do it," he added, looking into a few scared faces. "Can watch. Watch what the newt does. Watch what your partner does. See if you can get a feel for the magic. I'll be moving about wi' yon gadget- it's a Magical Resonance Extrapolator Core, and anyone who wants a closer view of it had best make a note to do well in their exams and take Advanced Magical Theory next year- which should give some of you a clearer idea of what's a-doing."

He began dividing the class into groups- showing some surprise- and something else, almost disappointment, with an unmistakable, if very brief, flash of anger on his ruddy features when Ginny put her hand up. It was foolish to feel embarrassed, she knew that. There wasn't anything cowardly about refusing to cast the Imperius Curse- but still, even because, no, perhaps because she knew that she had another reason, her secret reason, her cheeks still burned when she put her hand in the air. She could hear the surprise in peoples' breathing. Here was Harry Potter's consort- someone who'd fought in more battles than some full-blown Aurors, if one believed the popular press- apparently too scared to learn a spell at school. She could almost imagine the shock and disappointment on Colin's face before she turned to him.

He met her with a nervous grin.

"Do you want to work with me, then?" Colin shrugged. "I probably won't be able to do it though."

"Well, I..." Ginny stopped. Most of the class had found themselves partners now, and were milling around rearranging their seats accordingly. Someone's newt had already escaped. Luna was standing by her desk, occasionally half-opening her mouth to try to join some other unattached student, then closing it again, uncertain. Ginny looked up- and once more, met Milner's gaze, calm now- but questioning. "No, hang on, Colin." She jerked her head sideways in Luna's direction. He followed with his eyes, and nodded.

"Rather you than me, then," the blonde boy muttered quietly, without much ill-feeling. He picked up his newt, and hailed a rather surprised Louise Gudgeon, as Ginny attempted to attract Luna's attention. She was peripherally aware of a grateful smile briefly flashed from Professor Milner, and then of Luna's quizzical expression.

"People don't usually want to work with me, Ginny," she was told. Luna blinked slowly. "I expect you're feeling sorry for me?"

Ginny's mouth started to open, a dozen hasty denials coming to her lips. Then, she snapped it shut.

"Yes," she said, simply enough. Luna blinked again, and considered. Ginny continued. "I asked you because I felt sorry for you on your own," she told the Ravenclaw girl bluntly, and added, in the same tone, "And I noticed you were on your own because you're my friend."

"Well now, are we ready, boys and girls?" Milner strode back to the front of the class. "You're meant to all shout 'Yes, Professor Milner', but we'll overlook that." He set a newt on the desk in front of him, and lifted his wand in one hand, and the Core in the other. "Watch what I do... and then try your best." Narrowing his eyes almost to slits, he levelled the wand at the newt.

"Imperio."

Luna and Ginny huddled round a desk, and Luna lifted her wand, looking at the newt thoughtfully. She reached down with one finger and touched the top of its head lightly.

"Hello." The fair-haired girl crouched down beside the amphibian, and looked it in the eye. "I hope you don't mind this." Then she stood up again. Professor Milner had moved away, answering some query on spellcasting from Colin on the other side of the room.

"Have you ever done this before?" Ginny wondered, as Luna readied her wand once more. Growing up around Milner and Florence Lovegood- it was always possible- especially if Snape's story was true. Luna shook her head.

"Oh no. I don't think father would have liked me casting the Unforgivable Curses. I have been under the Imperius Curse once, though," she told Ginny casually. "It was just after mother died. Apparently it was the only way they could keep me under control- so I can remember a little of what it's like." She looked absently at the newt for a moment, and then swished her wand through the air, bringing it to a level plane, as the Professor had done, and stammered;

"I-Imperio."

Ginny stiffened, her fingers spreading and stretching back, extending the tendons. She felt the power gather- and darken- and then dissipate. Luna sucked the end of her wand, frowning. Ginny hesitated. Behind them, she could hear the curse being cast- could feel it, writhing and snaking between one mind and another. Her fingers twitched.

"Try again."

Luna looked at her, and nodded. Ginny put a hand on the other girl's arm again, steadying her.

"Imperio." This time it was better- and for a moment, a raw-edged curl of magic whipped out from Luna's wand-tip, touching the newt. For a moment, Ginny felt mind and magic mingle in the head of the amphibian- and the mind was not its own. For a moment. Then the spell collapsed, unstable, unbalanced.

Luna frowned, crouching down to talk to the newt again.

"You're not helping," she told the small creature. Milner was demonstrating something to Marigold, a few rows back. Ginny caught sight of him tilting the Core, pointing out something in the vortex as he cast the spell- and felt the curious tingling flick of the Imperius Curse.

She'd felt it before- she'd been under the curse before. The diary. As Luna stood up again, her pale face very serious, Ginny thought back. How had Riddle done it... what was it? A whisper of thought, an echo of the soul. She remembered how Harry and Ron had described being put under the curse by Barty Crouch Jr. two years ago.

The mind went to sleep.

Ginny allowed her hand to rest on Luna's arm again. She couldn't cast the spell- but she could feel it, and she could feel Luna.

"Wait a minute..." the red-haired girl concentrated. "Try it now..." she felt the Ravenclaw witch's magical field, trembling and shifting. She hadn't realised Luna was that frightened- and their eyes met. Luna's own bulbous, watery orbs shifted, evasively. Ginny half-withdrew her hand, about to tell Luna to stop- and then stopped herself.

_Milner's right. We need to know about this. She's a member of the DA- she went to the Ministry with us. We're both frightened- and she decided to carry on. She's got a right to make that choice. _

"Imp..."

"No... push outwards... but not into your wand," Ginny whispered. "I don't think it works like that- not this one. It's like Hermione said, about the Avada Kedavra. It's the magical force of the mind itself. Reach out for the newt- take the newt... let the magic find its own way to the wand." She gripped Luna's arm tightly, feeling the curse building, like a dull pain at the back of her head. She drew back slightly, lessening the overlap of their magical fields, conscious that that pain would be shared amongst her friends as well. Luna started in alarm at the withdrawal of magical contact- seemingly sensitive enough herself to be aware of the connection, and Ginny felt the power her friend had built up begin to ebb away.

"No- now!" she snapped, louder, and Luna responded, almost automatically;

"Imperio!"

A whirling plume of invisible magic slipped from the wand, and earthed into the newt, its legs stiffening suddenly, going rigid. Ginny saw it, leaning forward with her body and mind alike. Her own fingertips brushed her wand. The spell roared in her ears. She could see it all. Luna's mind, stretched out, interwoven into a skein of magic, a tubular web that spanned the gulf of mindless space between her consciousness, and the beast she now dominated- and Ginny could feel the spell, feel the same shifting, distorted power she'd always felt in the Unforgivables... and could feel it growing stronger, the spell plucking at her mind, demanding direction.

_Storm force. Flying into the wind. The dark night and the lights in the sky._

_Imperio. Imperio. Imperio._

She watched the newt, its limbs twitching, moving under the guidance of a mind unfamiliar with the body, writhing and struggling to control that form- felt the sweet release in its mind, felt back, the raging tumult around her.

_Dear Diary. Tell me how I can help you. _

A hand, anointed in red, moving across a wall.

_Her skeleton will lie in the chamber forever._

_I don't want to... please don't make me, Tom? Tom... I thought you were my friend, Tom..._

_Oh, I am. Hushabye, dear child. Let it be. Soon the pain will be gone forever, my poor, sweet child. Sister... daughter... let me in._

Spiders fled from her.

_"Crucio!"_

The pain raged, and she could see Lucius through the pain, feel his hatred, and feel his joy, crawling through the spell. She could feel the spell.

_Imperio. _

The newt was walking now, staggering in a jerking, grotesque walk this way and that- and a voice was speaking.

Luna's eyes were new- drawn half-closed, bright pinpricks, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Fear and something else on her face.

_Luna, stop it... no, don't stop. Never stop. It's freedom... raw magic, raw, untamed... I have to..._

"G-Ginny..." another voice broke in on her shock, and she looked up again, straining to see the real world past the writhing fury of the magic. Luna's breath was caught in her throat, her eyes fixed on the creature in front of her- all vagueness, all idle befuddlement gone from her features. The other girl's face was flushed, her lips parted, and her head turned this way and that, trying in vain to break her gaze. "Uncle Aloysius..." it was nothing more than a whisper- a plea- but then a hand was on her shoulder, pulling Luna back- and as her eyes left the newt, it sprawled, and Luna Lovegood's wand clattered to the floor, a trail of indigo light on the air as it fell.

Ginny caught her breath, biting back an angry remonstrance as Luna clung to her teacher, breathing out great shuddering gasps.

"Steady now," Milner half-knelt beside her, retrieving the wand. "That's enough for today, Luna..."

The mousy girl pulled her head back, looking at the Professor in confusion. Around the class, eyes watched them, a few disparaging sneers forming on faces.

"S-sorry, Luna," Ginny held her breath for a long moment, until the body's demand for oxygen quelled the whirlwind in her mind a little. "I... I ought to have pulled you out of it."

"I.. I couldn't stop," Luna shook her head, looking at her wand as Milner returned it to her as if it was some poisonous serpent. She twisted her gaze around, avoiding looking anywhere near the newt. "I couldn't stop."

"You went too far," Milner told her quietly. "My fault. Should have thought- with young Ginny there idling away- too much power on hand." He patted Luna's cheek. "Why don't you go and sit it out- watch one of the other lot?"

Luna looked at the floor for a moment, and nodded. "Thank you, Uncle Aloysius," she squeezed his hand, and went past him.

"Sank you, nuncle Alyishusus," Ginny heard someone simper, mockingly, from somewhere in the class- and Milner's eyes went flat for a moment.

"Leave it out," Colin's partner muttered in embarrassment, receiving Colin's angry stare at close quarters on behalf of her Sparrow Squadron. The author of the offending remark glared at her- but fell silent, none the less. Colin himself came forward, a little uncertainly, at Milner's beckoning. Once Luna was safely attended to, the Dark Arts Professor's eyes flicked back to Ginny, half-narrowed.

"Sure you'd not care to try it for yourself, Miss Weasley?" the tone was light enough- but there was nothing of Milner's usual mockery in it. Ginny swallowed hard. The truth was, she acknowledged with a shudder of her own, that there was a large part of her that would like nothing better. She firmly shook her head, clenching her teeth.

"More than ever," she told him firmly. The Professor nodded- and this time, seemed to show no displeasure whatsoever.

"It's powerful magic, isn't it," he observed conversationally. "Ah, Colin. You seemed to be handling it pretty well over there, I thought."

"I wasn't very good at it," Colin protested.

"No, no, be fair to yourself, Colin. Borderline incompetent are the words I'd use," Milner grinned- "But then we're not here to teach you how to _use_ the blasted thing, are we?" he added- eyes moving back to Ginny again. "You were able to cast the spell without losing yourself in it," he finished, giving Colin a sincere smile. "Try it again. That's a more important skill than learning some new and unusual way to hurt people, Mr Creevey."

"No..." Ginny shifted. Last time, she'd almost fallen into the abyss. All thoughts of the Oath, the others, all of it had gone. She took half a step backwards- and Milner turned to her, holding up the Extrapolator Core.

"Don't you want to face it down, Miss Weasley?" he asked, not moving his eyes from hers. "The Unforgivable Curses are seductive, and they _are_ dangerous..." he held out the Core. "You heard it, didn't you? The harmony." He shook his head. "Trust me. Not something I'm particularly prone to say... but maybe that tells you something. When I say it, I mean it." Suddenly he stood up again, and shrugged. "Or, maybe it just means I'm a dirty double crossing traitor... but are you seriously planning to let that thing beat you, hm?"

The challenge hung in the air. Ginny was faintly, somewhere, aware of the rest of the class's attention- but Milner held her gaze, his coarsely-featured face cunning beneath hair that had long since given up any claim to order or decorum.

"I've felt it," Milner whispered. "Trust me. If you're as strong as you believe you are- you'll come out the other side- and maybe you'll find you've learned something you need to know as well. Sooner or later, you're going to have to face these things, Ginny. The rest of us- maybe... but in your case, I'm afraid there's no maybe about it. Then... later... _won't_ be the best time to be facing the inside of an Unforgivable Curse for the first time."

For seconds as long as years, she looked back at him. She made no sign, her hands still clenched, knuckles white, eyes barely blinking- but the Professor read something in her eyes, and the moment of one-ness slipped away as he turned his head sharply to Colin.

"Jolly good. Go ahead."

As Colin levelled his wand, and Ginny's jaw clamped tight, struggling against the nausea that rose in her throat, Milner took one of her hands, and pushed the Core into it.

"Watch," he said in an urgent tone. "Not Creevey- here. If you can see it from the outside- with your eyes, not just your mind... then you can set a limit on it."

"IMPERIO!" Colin gasped it out, and then the pressure came down again, building- stronger than before, far stronger than all the times in the past when Ginny had been close to the Unforgivable Curses.

_Imperius is the weakest of the curses... why... why is it so close?_

Perhaps the diary, she wondered, fighting against the pull of the magic, watching the writhing of energy within the thaumometer. Perhaps being so close to the Imperius Curse for so long, so young... no. It felt... too neat. Something else.

_Racing, churning, boiling power._

Her thoughts were gathering- and then the pain grew so strong that the moment's discomfort from before was nothing. She reeled back, the curse slipping out of her mind, ice in her skull. For one instant, as she sat back heavily in her seat, there was a scar on her forehead, a lightning bolt, vivid and cold, and ever there, now more distant, now so far away as to be forgotten, now closer again, another mind. Pure hatred. For an instant, she was standing against a tree, taller, watching Hagrid tend to a couple of mud-drakes. For an instant, she was gazing out of the castle window, guiltily aware that she should be working- and rubbing her eyes in sudden agony- and then, for four, the pain passed. Ginny's hand grasped her wand more firmly, and a faint shield charm flared into life- just for a second, keeping the magic out. She gripped her forehead with her free hand, shuddering.

"Sorry..." she whispered to herself, and to the others, her voice weak and shaking, and then pulled herself up abruptly, seeing her shield's magical signature within the Core, a faint ribbon of twisting heliotrope within the indigo. She glanced guiltily at Milner- but his face showed no trace of a question. The pain was fading now- but she had come to the edge of casting the curse herself, she knew that. Close enough.

_Still. Reaching, stretching. How can anyone throw off the Curse? It's... beautiful. Silver light and midnight blue in the dark. It's... wrong. Sick and twisting, black horror._

She forced her eyes to stay locked on the magical signature. It meant nothing to her on one level- the workings of the core, the readings Milner had been able to take from it before Christmas... nothing... but she knew- could see, in the ebb and flow, the contrasts and the harmonies, that what the Core saw and heard in the world was what she saw and heard.

_It's the soul. The mind. Beauty and horror hand in hand. Just like the Avada. The same thing. The same magic. Horrible because... because of the mind, the will. The will to dominate. That's the truth!_

Ginny closed her eyes, ignoring Milner's hiss of caution. She closed her eyes and looked full into the face of Ranbrat's Imperius, as an enemy.

_Cast me, speak my name. Feel the power. Embrace the strength? Funnily enough, no. _

She could feel herself straightening, and feel- far more real- the curse, writhing in the air before her. Strong, impossibly strong. The mind. The spell. Mind and magic. One thing. The same thing. The same harmony, the sound of sorcery ringing in her ears. She could see it- clearer than in the Core. Raw magic carving burning trails in her mind. She could still feel the temptation- but now it had changed. This was a magic that enslaved, that clawed and killed, that invaded the self and betrayed it. A spell woven by a madman. Ginny reached out to it, feeling it in her mind. The beauty of symmetry, of form... all that was unchanged... but now something else was stronger. The horror. It seemed to grow darker in her mind, all the colour and roaring life turning sickly black- and then, just for a moment, she saw it. The faintest flicker. She could taste the magic, could feel the shape of the spell- and there it was. The smallest... faultline. A weakness. Something so far beyond the nature of any other spell, so far outside the description of normal magic that it had no name... but there.

She plunged towards it, feeling the curse, caressing it, easing its strands apart, reaching down- but it was dying, flickering and fading, and now so distant, and a hand was on her shoulder, a voice in her ear...

_It was there... I know it was..._

"That's it, Miss Weasley, thank you." Milner took the Core from her hand. "We can't ask young Colin to keep that up much longer," he nodded to Colin, as the young Gryffindor returned his wand to his pocket, his face pale, arms shaking slightly. "The spell was falling apart, anyway," Milner noted, clapping his hands and motioning for everyone to return to their seats.

_No... that wasn't it. I'm sure that wasn't it._

"Well done, everyone." Milner sat on the desk. "Fifty points all round, I think." He paused. "Which is probably meaningless. However, there it stands- and next lesson," he spread his hands defensively, with a tired smile of his own, "We'll do something a little less... tiring, shall we?" He swung his legs back over the desk, and stood behind it, picking up his briefcase. "Probably involving trolls," the stout man muttered to himself, as his students shook themselves, most returning their wands to their sleeves or pockets with an unusual alacrity and relief.

"Professor..." she began. "I just wondered if.." she looked at the Core questioningly- but Milner swung it up and laid it in the case as she spoke, and snapped the lid closed on her final words.

"Not just now, Ginny," he observed, with a bright smile. "Enough is enough for one day to make the cows' milk run and the sun shine, don't you think? You've learned something, I think. Go away and rest. Let your mind mull things over. That's the way to learn. Go and fill Professor Snape's office with dead fish or something, or whatever it is fifth years do to relax- and, yes, thank you, Mr Arbuthnott, I know full well what the Daily Prophet thinks Miss Weasley and Mr Potter do to relax. Not being their head of house, or especially concerned about the youth of today, I happily resign myself to not caring." He eyed the ceiling thoughtfully. "Besides, I always thought _that_ wasn't possible unless you had a willing centaur, anyway," Milner finished. "Class dismissed. Run along, before I forget that you're not the next class and make you sit through the whole lesson again."

Perhaps he was right. Ginny swung her bag on to her back, and turned to look at Luna. The pale haired girl met her look bravely, but made no move to join her. Ginny glanced back at Milner, and then to Luna. That, too, was probably for the best, she reflected, although she had a nasty feeling the rest of Ravenclaw house might well see it differently. After what she and Ginny had just been through, Ginny was the last person she would personally choose to help take Luna's mind off things. Another time. She thanked Colin for seeing the second demonstration through with her, and followed him out of the door, the last save Luna to leave.

* * *

Professor Aloysius Milner sat back in his chair, opening the thaumometer case again, and looking it up and down carefully. He looked over at his ersatz niece, after a moment's surveying the empty classroom.

"It's a mistake, I've always thought, to not forget that yesterday and today are two different beasts," he observed blankly.

Luna rubbed her eyes.

"Father always says that we aren't necessarily the same person from one minute to the next," she responded.

Milner nodded.

"I'm sorry if that hurt you." He looked at her in concern. "It took me much the same way too, the first time."

"You're sorry- but not sorry that you did it, of course." Luna looked frankly at him, and started to pack up her own belongings, sadly hunting for a favourite quill. "People always say that they're sorry that they did something, although they know that they'd do the same thing again- because the thing that they did is more important than what happened by mistake. Why is that?" She found the quill, driven hard into a patch of old chewing gum stuck underneath somebody's desk.

Milner put his hands behind his head.

"Well, perhaps because it's true," he withdrew his wand from one ear, provoking a chuckle from the girl none the less, and snapped out a cleaning charm across the classroom, removing the gum from the quill. "There you have it. The people who suffer it the most are the people who most need to learn about it... apart from the ones who don't suffer _at all_ when they try it, and I'm afraid I don't know how to teach them." He trailed off for a moment. "Of course I'd do it again- and you're right, I'd do it again even if I knew what was going to happen. I'm reliably unreliable that way... but I'm still sorry, Luna." He held out a hand, lip pushed forward, a parody of repentance. "Trust me."

Luna turned- but, for a moment, did not take his hand.

"What about Ginny?" she asked, instead. "She's my friend, you know. Are you sorry for her as well- and is it the same sort of sorry?"

"Ah." The Dark Arts Professor leant back again, rocking back on his chair. "Now there's a question, isn't there, Miss Lovegood?" His lips twitched. "Find out for homework."

* * *

**Author's Note: **I don't mean to imply- by this and the last Chapter- that with the exception of Luna, Ravenclaw is populated by gits. Not am I making the Ravenclaw fifth year the equivalent of the sixth year Slytherin. It's unfortunately the case, however, that fifth year schoolchildren and below have a tendency to behave like this when en masse. Hopefully the fact that it's Louise Gudgeon- not only a Ravenclaw, but one of the cliquey ones, that tells one of them to knock it off this time does make the point- they egg each other on. Individually, they're almost certainly perfectly nice people. It just seems that, what with my Sparrow Squadron, and JKR's own creation of Cho's little gaggle of obnoxious friends in Book 5, the Birdy House is coming in for more than its fair share of negative publicity. I'm sure there are some utterly despicable and revolting Gryffindors around as well.

**Responses:**

**The Librarian's Assistant:** Thank you. I'm very fond of language, and do my best to treat it well in writing it. Like all good analogies, that one holds true on its flipside as well- since most of my writing problems tend to stem from over-indulging the language and letting it take over. I do enjoy playing with words, however.

**Randl Scot: **Also thanks. Here's some more to be going along with :-)


	48. A Host of Foes

**Chapter Forty-Eight: **A Host of Foes

An argument was raging above her as Hermione climbed the stairs. At least- one voice, shouting, while another tried- apparently without success, to judge from the sound- to get a word in edgeways. At first she thought the louder voice was Ron's, bellowing indistinctly, seemingly utterly furious about something, but, a couple of turns up the steps towards her friends' dormitory later, she realised the tone was wrong.

"… Irresponsible… blazing idiot…" She suppressed a smile of faint relief. Talking in those terms, at least, it was unlikely to be a serious enemy.

"Heck, will you shut up!" _That_ was definitely Harry, though. For a moment Hermione hovered, one foot raised over the next step, pinned somewhere between good manners and curiosity- and then curiosity won. She had a message to deliver, after all. Even as she started up the stairs again, the angry voice rose once more, spluttering in rage, so that, on the other side of the bedroom wall, it was difficult to make out much beside the most violently exhorted exclamations.

"… goes against years of training…. Blockhead! What the deuce do you…"

She reached the tiny landing outside the Sixth Year boys' dormitory, and, as she shifted her weight from stone step to wooden board, the floorboard creaked beneath her feet. There was a startled noise from inside the room, and then, as the angry voice- Hermione was sure she knew it- began to shout again, Harry's own words rang out over the top of it.

"Incendio!"

Suddenly, the voice cut off, restarting a moment later, crackling and wavering, its pitch dropping lower, as a sharp crackle of fire rose up over the top of it. Hermione pushed the door open, quickly, not sure _what_ to expect inside.

"Get some water, quick!" Harry turned, a grimace on his face as he scrambled up off his own bed. One of the other boy's beds was smoking, a small ball of fire and burning paper rapidly spreading its incendiary properties to the bedclothes. The Boy Who Lived gesticulated with his wand at the bed, mangling a water-summoning charm. A large chocolate cake popped into existence and fell abruptly on to the funeral pyre of what- judging by the edges of blackening red paper she could still just see, Hermione guessed to be a Howler.

Hermione cast an extinguishing charm- but Harry chose the same moment to make another attempt at his dousing spell. Both hexes collided with the chargrilled chocolate cake, which instantly metamorphosed into a lettuce. Harry groaned, and Hermione tried again, with more success this time. Her friend regarded the charred hole in the blankets and bed sheets with some chagrin.

"Idiot," he grumbled.

"I think that's fair enough," Hermione observed. "What on Earth possessed you to…"

"Not _me_," Harry retorted, fanning the flames of his latest private grievance, "What kind of nitwit thinks the words 'Howler' and 'Top Secret' go together…" he bit his lip, and stopped, walking quickly over to the bed and scooping up the debris. "Never mind," he finished, a little rudely, over his shoulder. "Thanks for putting the fire out," he added, after a moment, turning round with a placatory grin.

"Any time, Harry," his friend responded, wearily. "I take it if I was to ask why--"

"I'd rather you didn't." Harry said it a little uncomfortably, and winced as Hermione turned her head away slightly, lips thinning, her expression not very pleased- but whether sad or angry or both, he wasn't quite sure. "It's not… going too well," he admitted, repairing the damage to Neville's bedclothes with his wand as he spoke, not wanting to look Hermione in the eyes until he'd had the chance to deliver his explanation. "I sort of want to… well, have something a bit more solid before I tell anyone."

He grit his teeth. The silence was oppressive. He tried to justify himself "Dumbledore did say…"

A sharp intake of breath surprised him, and he looked round. For a moment, Hermione looked definitely angry, and then she nodded, as if forcing herself to remember something.

"The less people know, the less we can give away," she replied, and nodded again, more confidently this time. "It's all right, Harry." She smiled, putting a hand out to touch his for a moment- although there was still a slight unhappiness behind her eyes for a moment- or had he imagined it? "We've all trusted each other with enough- one secret's not going to break that."

He nodded, still feeling uncomfortable, and shifted from foot to foot. Hermione stood, waiting. He frowned, a question on his lips.

"Dumbledore wants to see us." Harry nodded, his features almost automatically drawing into a set composure, the embarrassment at his impromptu fire-raising and the shifty, distant look he'd assumed as she'd pried into his secret both smoothed away.

"That was quick," he remarked, slipping his wand up his sleeve. He'd sent the Headmaster a note last night. Harry glanced round as he held the door open for her to descend. "Did you let Ron and Gin know?"

She nodded, sparing one last glance back at the wastepaper basket, where the exhortations of the writer of Harry's Howler lay charred and unrecognisable- but Harry moved across the doorway behind her, drawing it closed, and Hermione began to make her way down towards the common room, trying to put it out of her mind.

"It's about Blaise, isn't it?" she asked.

"And Percy."

* * *

"Ah- thank you, no, Miss Weasley." Professor Dumbledore sat back in his chair, and patted his beard thoughtfully. "I regret to say that experience has lead me avoid consuming any confectionary offered by the younger members of your excellent family." He glanced across the table. "Perhaps Professor Milner..." 

Milner raised an eyebrow, and turned his attention across the desk, where Ginny regarded him with a faint light of amusement in her eyes. The Dark Arts Professor's watery eyes narrowed for a moment, and then, with a sudden lunge, rapid enough to be startling, he reached forward, his cupped hand held underneath her own.

"Why not?" the Professor shrugged, catching the sweet and flipping it into his mouth. "B'ain't as like as I haven't ne'er been turned into owt queerer, aye?"

"Indeed." Dumbledore regarded the thaumaturgist's experimental mastications for a moment, his face showing a certain mischievous anticipation. After a while, however, when Milner showed no apparent ill-effects beyond the usual silence engendered by lock-jaw goblin toffee, the Headmaster turned back to the four adolescents- and his face grew more serious. "Now- I understand that you have something to tell me."

Harry nodded, and, after exchanging one long, silent look with Ginny, began to once again recount Blaise' peculiar story.

Ron stood listening for a moment, then abruptly shifted his attention to the room around them. He'd spent rather less time in Dumbledore's office than Harry, and seemed able to find some distraction in the oddments around the room. Hermione, too, had already heard the tale in summary, having found Ron and Harry seated in the Common Room early yesterday evening. Harry had apparently repeated his story- somewhat reluctantly- to Ron, and if the red-haired boy had appeared somewhat red-eyed and pale of face, neither of his two old companions had spoken of it.

What, precisely, Harry had been doing for all of the evening prior to his late return was something Hermione had already made up her mind not to enquire, even before she had heard the story. After the evening had passed by with no sign of either the boy, or of Ginny, she had not been entirely surprised when, at some time not long after midnight, she had heard footsteps on the floor below her, and the Fifth Year girls' door open and shut with a quiet but scurrilous creak, followed by a muffled apology from a familiar voice. This Wednesday morning, had shown Ginny to be plainly fully aware of what Harry was now telling the Headmaster in greater depth- omitting only Percy's final, personal message to his family.

Hermione pondered those words, as the boy spoke. The supernatural- or, at least, the supernatural as distinct from the purely magical- was not a field she felt comfortable with. She wasn't disposed to attempt to deny its existence- Hermione Granger had been taught the History of Magic for five years by an undeniable ghost, and was generally on perfectly good terms with the Gryffindor House spectre, Nearly-Headless Nick- but the sheer malleability of the so-called spirit world irritated her. It was frustratingly near impossible to judge the possible from the impossible, or to reach any conclusion from logical argument, in a field where even the best wizarding experts were inclined to shrug their shoulders and claim that ghosts wrote their own rules- and rewrote them as necessary.

Harry spoke- and Dumbledore listened patiently, while Milner, his own face intent, absently fidgeted with one of the Headmaster's smaller chess sets. On the walls, portraits muttered to themselves- some still eyeing Harry rather nervously.

Milner- there was another puzzle. Neither Hermione nor Harry had been especially pleased to see the Dark Arts teacher waiting with Dumbledore when they had reached the office- but, as the old man had noted during the Christmas holidays, Hogwarts' protective wards did need to be examined and charted, and the bizarre thaumaturgist was almost certainly one of the few members of staff qualified for the job. None the less, Hermione watched him warily- noting a sudden start of surprise when Harry recited the prophecy that Umbridge had learned. Finally, the boy finished his story, and looked expectantly at Dumbledore.

The Professor rose to his feet, leaning on his desk a little stiffly, and made his way over to Fawkes' cage, where Ginny was seated in a small armchair, hand propped under her chin. Thoughtfully, he considered the phoenix for a moment, saying nothing. Then he turned back to the little group.

"Miss Granger is quite right, of course," he observed to Harry, returning to his desk without having spoken with Hermione- but, she realised with a faint lurch of surprise, having settled his bird-like eyes on her, just for a moment, studying the doubt in her expression. "What is enough to convince you and Mr Weasley," he nodded graciously to Ron, by the window, "Is not nearly sufficient to be valid evidence in a court of law."

Harry's face hardened, and something dark formed in his eyes- but the Headmaster's gaze lifted, and met Harry's own for a long moment. The boy was the first to look away.

"Aye, well, that's as mebbe, yer Lairdship," Milner's voice broke in on the silence suddenly. "Still, I'm right glad to hear all this." He sat back in his chair, idly twirling his wand between his fingers. Harry and the others stared at him, startled, and Milner looked back. "Well," the Darks Arts teacher explained, "Seems to me as how we've been and settled one slight- irritating- worrying-" as he spoke each word, his wand flipped over- and chessmen jumped from the board, trotting across the floor- a mixed force, black and white pawns, "- frustration of a detail-goblin that's been fair gnawin' on mah worry bones of an evenin'."

Harry frowned at him in confusion. The Professor caught the look, and snapped his fingers, leaping to his feet with one of his sudden bursts of energy. "Tut, very slow walking on our brain today, Mr Potter." He rocked back on the balls of his feet, tapping the tip of his nose with his wand until he went cross-eyed. "Perhaps not," the thaumaturgist muttered to himself, returning the wand to his pocket. "Mind you, I'm fair glad to see it settled, lad, b'ain't you?" He looked round the room patiently. Hermione's hands were inside her coat, but Harry would have laid odds from her expression that her fists were clenched in exasperation. Professor Dumbledore sat behind his desk, his own face indecipherable. "That business wi' yon Amoeba Verruca," Milner beamed suddenly, leaning forward over the side of the Headmaster's desk, his dialect sliding back to his 'lecturing voice'. "I've been rather waiting for someone to find out precisely what the Haranguing Heliotropes was going on there, Harry, haven't I?" He blinked three times, and sat back in his own chair.

Harry looked uncertainly at Dumbledore, and started to speak.

"Oh, _of course..._" Hermione interrupted, with a flash of triumph in her eyes.

"Very good, Miss Granger. Fifty points to--"

"The Dark Lord shall mark him as an equal," Hermione broke in again, frowning in concentration. Harry's brow wrinkled slightly, but his eyes glittered.

"Funnily enough, I haven't forgotten that one," Harry gave her a level look. "Give me some good news, 'Mione. Tell me the 'Power the Dark Lord knows not' is something nice and simple." He thought for a moment. "It's not got anything to do with wearing Dobby's socks, has it?"

"A power I had not considered," Dumbledore mused loudly to himself.

"How powerful is young Voldemort, Harry?" Milner enquired pointedly, watching one of his more adventurous chessmen attempting to climb the curtain. He leapt across the room, barely managing to catch it. "Careful now," he held his cupped hands up to his face, speaking in a soothing, fussy tone. "You'll be after breakin' yerself agin, aye..."

Harry spread his hands, protesting his ignorance- and then thought for a moment. He didn't know. However, he rather suspected that, even not knowing, he still had a slightly better idea of the Dark Lord's strength than anyone else on the planet. He'd fought Voldemort. He'd faced Riddle's power.

"Of course." Dumbledore gave a patrician nod. "We should have realised as soon as we learned that Delores was afraid of your power." The old man stroked his upper lip thoughtfully. "It was a test, Harry, nothing more."

"She's afraid of anything she doesn't understand." Hermione went on. "She couldn't see how on Earth someone like you- no offence, Harry- could possibly stand up to Voldemort. It didn't make sense." She shook her head. "Why send a creature like that to attack the school? It wasn't to distract attention away from something else," she ticked it off on her fingers, "Because nothing happened."

"Unless it worked so well we still haven't noticed," Harry frowned.

"Maybe she was just trying to kill you?" Ron looked round at his friend. "I mean, if she really is working for Voldemort..."

"No." Hermione nodded to Milner, who folded his arms, leaning back against the wall and regarding her with a rather poor impression of Dumbledore's patient gaze. "I could imagine Voldemort doing something like that just for the spectacle of it- he likes spreading fear," Around the room, various heads nodded grimly, "But Umbridge isn't like that. She's more interested in results." The bushy-haired girl frowned again. "The Amoeba Vendetta wasn't meant to kill Harry. It was meant to get killed by Harry."

"What's the point of that?" Ron scowled.

"Oh, believe me," Milner lilted, "If you could only _believe_ the number of times I've thought that when marking exam papers, haven't I?"

"She was testing us." Harry's voice was flat. Hermione nodded.

"But it could have been anyone who went after that thing," Ron protested. "Snape was fighting it even before Harry turned up- we all took a shot at it- and Ginny went in after him. How'd she even know Harry was going to get involved at all?"

"In six years, Mr Weasley," Dumbledore mused, "I wonder how many violent or dangerous incidents have occurred in the grounds of this school?" He waited a moment, then, without waiting for an answer, went on, "I also wonder how many of them have _not_, in some small way, involved Mr Potter." He regarded Harry with a benign look. After a long moment, the boy's bleak expression cracked, and he stifled a short laugh.

"I get about a bit," Harry admitted. "Mostly because your Defence teachers keep trying to kill me."

"Objection, your honour," Ginny put a hand up, apparently beating Professor Milner to it. The thaumaturgist contented himself with continuing to try to talk a white knight down from one of the higher picture rails. "I nearly managed it in my first year here," Ginny protested. "Nobody ever told me you had to teach Defence before you were allowed to try and kill him."

"None the less," Dumbledore sat up straighter in his chair, watching his young charges with pleasure, "I believe Aloysius and Miss Granger have the right of it." He steepled his hands together thoughtfully. "If Delores was indeed aware of the prophecy, then it is a sensible first step to take."

"It's a first step, though." Ginny's wand flicked out, and summoned an errant knight from under the desk, weighing it in her small hand. She pursed her lips, drawing her feet up under her. "Why hasn't she moved since then?" She narrowed her eyes. "She attacked us to find out something about Harry's strength- but then she's just left us alone- unless Voldemort told her to."

"I still don't think she's necessarily working for Voldemort," Hermione retorted, and looked to the Headmaster in appeal. "We don't even know she actually betrayed Fudge-" she looked back at Ron and Ginny, both of whom wore anger on their faces. "I'm sorry, but we don't," Hermione's lips narrowed, and her voice grew very quiet. "Percy said what he said in all good faith- and I'm not denying anything that he said's true- but he only _suspected _Umbridge."

"Oh," Ron stood up, fists clenched tightly, suddenly wrathful. "What on Earth are you defending her for? Look here, Hermione- I'm not saying we know, we don't- but you know the things that cow tried to do last year- she threatened to use the Cruciatus curse on _you_, for Merlin's sake-"

"I'm not defending her!" Hermione rounded on him. "Ron, listen to me! We don't _know_ enough to just assume she's a Death Eater! What happens if we're wrong?"

"What, Umbridge gets sent to Azkaban for something she didn't do?" Ron's face pulled into what was almost a sneer. "Yeah, I can live with that. Even if she didn't, it'd only make up for all the things she _has_ done and got away with before. Let her rot." His eyes flashed angrily, and he turned with an abrupt shake of the head- as if embarrassed by the venom in his words, but too angry to take it back.

"That's not what I mean, Ron--" Hermione bridled furiously- and Harry turned.

"_Someone_ told Voldemort that Fudge would be there that night," he said quietly.

"I'm not disputing that--" Hermione stopped, as Harry held up a hand defensively.

"I know. The thing is, if it wasn't Umbridge- then who was it?" He walked over to Ron. "There's another side to it," he apologised to his friend. "You're right- I'd gladly chuck the vicious old cow down into the Chamber of Secrets and go and ask Little Tommy if he's got another Basilisk he can spare- but if we just _assume_ it's her- and stop looking for a traitor in the Ministry... then there's a chance we'll be letting the real culprit get away."

Ron took a deep breath, biting his lip.

"Believe me, mate," Harry told him very quietly. "If we ever do get proof, they'll pay for what they did- but we've got to be sure." Ron looked up at Harry quickly- and saw the rage, still burning hot behind his friend's eyes- but still, Harry turned, walking back to the Headmaster's desk, his pace calm and controlled.

"It still doesn't answer the question..." Ginny brooded in the chair. "Why test Harry's strength if she wasn't going to do something with it?"

"Maybe she already did, and we didn't notice," Ron observed gloomily.

"Alternatively," Professor Dumbledore had watched the altercation between the four students silently- at one point motioning Milner to silence when the teacher had been about to intervene, "It is possible that Delores may have discovered something she did not like." He looked at Harry. "It would be fair to say, I think, Harry, that your talents have become somewhat more apparent of late."

Harry shifted from foot to foot, looking downward. Milner turned, observing his pupil's discomfiture with a faintly sardonic smile.

"Still puts too much of himself into his shield charms, doesn't he?" the Professor interjected suddenly, putting an end to the awkward silence. "Fat lot of good it is putting up a shield round yourself if you go and pretty much turn your entire thaumaturgical potential into the shield." He wagged a finger at Harry chidingly, who hid his gratitude behind a wry smile. After a moment, Milner looked down at the finger irritably, and folded it away again.

"He does it all the time," Ginny observed without thinking. "You wouldn't believe what happened the first time he tried the sonorous charm." She rubbed her ears in pained fashion, and added. "I wouldn't mind, but I was at the other end of the castle at the time."

"Do you two mind?"

Despite herself, Hermione smiled slightly at Harry's tone of mock-outrage- and then caught herself up in another thought, watching the boy's eyes closely for a moment. It was still there. Not as raw, certainly, as when he'd come back to Grimmauld Place last August- now, there was no doubting the genuine depth of his feelings- but still, the same evasive, mercurial attitude in the boy's temperament. Harry could flash from rage to cold logic in moments- and for all it did her heart good to see him happy again, she couldn't shake a certain unease from her mind. Harry was the same he'd ever been- when he was happy, when he was angry, when he was sad- and his friends'- not to mention his own fears that that Harry had become a shell had been proved groundless- but still, that volatility of temperament, and more, the control he seemed capable of exercising over it at need bothered Hermione, in a way she could not quite define.

Maybe that's not right.

It was an idle thought, insufficiently formed to be worth pursuing yet.

We adapt to circumstances. Maybe it's not how Harry's changed that worries me, but why.

"Unless..." Ginny pulled her arms tightly across herself, hands resting on opposite shoulders, and tilted her head to one side. "Unless that's what it was about." She looked at Harry. "Maybe she wanted to find out who was the stronger. Then, once she'd found out, that's when she decided to help Voldemort attack the Ministry."

"Assuming she wants him to win." Harry went over to his friend. "I can think of a couple of other reasons," he added, bleakly.

"Useful stuff, war." Milner observed, a queer look in his eye. "It pushes things forward, and makes it terribly easy to simplify things, doesn't it?" he shot a thoughtful glance at Dumbledore. "Them and us." He clicked his tongue. "Right and wrong. Good and evil. Pretty little bunch of... what the dickens do you suppose _is_ the collective noun for a group of generalisations, Miss Granger? Never mind. Probably a class."

Dumbledore sighed heavily, and nodded.

"I fear Aloysius is correct, Harry. By precipitating conflict with Lord Voldemort, Delores and her allies within the Ministry may hope to exacerbate the sense of fear among the general population- a fear that she can then turn to her own advantage. "

"Oh, and it doesn't matter to her if a couple of hundred people- her people- get killed in the crossfire then?" Ron muttered.

"I fear, Mr Weasley, that politicians of all breeds find it distressingly easy to justify themselves in such matters. To lose a few hundred here to save a few thousand there.."

Ron's angry retort died on his lips, and his jaw tightened, a sour look on his face. He turned back to the chessboard, picking up a pawn between finger and thumb and holding it up, meaningfully.

"I rather think you will have to leave the Ministry for me to deal with, for the time being," the Headmaster continued, before Harry could protest. "Being Headmaster of Hogwarts does afford certain responsibilities, after all." He gave a wry half-smile. "And I have been playing the political game for rather longer than Madam Delores Umbridge." Suddenly, that smile was feral, almost predatory, and the glint in Dumbledore's eyes was not in the least friendly or inviting. He laid one hand, fingers splayed, flat on his desk blotter. "Kingsley and Miss Tonks expect to have a little more concrete- and legally useful- evidence on the arrival of the companion of your underwater frolic quite soon now," he told Harry, quietly. "I assure you personally, Harry, that if I find cause to be certain that our former colleague did take it upon herself to expose students of this school to such danger in order to further her political ambitions, then," the Professor's tone grew flat and bleak, "It will have been a course of action she will most sincerely regret."

Harry nodded. The inner workings of the Ministry of Magic were beyond him- and the anger in the Headmaster's eyes was enough of a promise to tell him that- if it was the right decision- something would be done.

"All right, Professor." He looked round at his three friends. "That goes for all of us," he added, after a moment.

Dumbledore nodded, and smiled again, drawing himself up in his chair.

"Thank you, Harry." He snapped his fingers, as if recollecting some other matter. "Which talk of London, of course, recalls another topic to my attention. The Professor smiled wearily, then looked enquiringly up at Milner, then across at Ron, Ginny, and Hermione. "The enquiry into young Draco's conduct last term will take place in two weeks time," he told them, mildly. "As it is likely that any and all of you may be called as witnesses, I do suggest that you take this opportunity to advise your teachers of your likely absence sooner, rather than later… and on which note, I should like to speak to Harry alone for a moment, if I may?"

"Of course, sir," Harry nodded, sitting down, feeling somewhat self-conscious as his friends- and Professor Milner- left the room, Ginny resting her hand briefly on his shoulder as she did so. He saw Ron and Hermione exchange a questioning glance, then follow Milner out. He turned, looking after them with a faint grin, and then looked back- to meet a glitter of amusement in his mentor's eyes.

Yet as soon as the outer door had closed, Dumbledore leaned forward in his chair, his eyes alight with another glint, a youthful one that took a number of recent years away from his countenance. It was the glitter of conspiracy that illuminated his eyes.

"I do wish to discuss Draco with you- in a moment," he explained, "But first- Severus imparted to me what he had told you on Boxing Day- and your reaction to that news." Dumbledore sat back again, although his voice remained low and urgent. "Before this year began, I asked the four of you to consider carefully your opinion of Professor Milner-" he lifted his eyes to Harry's again. "I should be interested to hear what enlightenment you can give to a confused old man in this present time."

Dumbledore sat back again, watching intently. Harry shifted in his chair. It was awkward. He'd never fully trusted the Dark Arts teacher- partly, of course, because of the very nature of the man's job- but none the less, he'd found a certain liking for Milner growing in the last few months. He sighed.

"He's… afraid," he said, suddenly realising it as he said it. "I think that's what all that business about telling people not to trust him's about. Luna's mother did trust him- and he blames himself for what happened to her."

The Headmaster nodded, hands steepled beneath his chin. Harry frowned, thinking back over the last term.

"There's something Ron said as well," he thought, remembering. "It's as if he- Milner, I mean,"

"Professor Milner, Harry," Dumbledore chided him, with a nostalgic amusement.

"Sorry, _Professor _Milner- it's as if he's doing something- he thinks he's doing the right thing… but well, it's as if he's not quite sure- so he wants to make sure we keep questioning him, just in case someone can stop him if he's wrong." Harry sat back in the armchair, and then leant forward again, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands in front of him. "Something else. We- Ginny's seen it a couple of times, Hermione thinks she did, once, and I'm fairly sure I have as well." He supported his jaw on his clasped knuckles, and looked across the desk at the Headmaster. "He and Luna have both got this same- necklace- thing. It's like a little black stone on a cord." Harry hesitated, organising his thoughts, uncurling both index fingers to rub them ruminatively over his lips. "I think they've got some private way of talking to each other through them. I've noticed- whenever Luna gets into any sort of trouble now, he's always very quick to get there- and sometimes, Ginny's seen them just- well, staring into space, but holding on to the stone."

He thought back briefly to the battle in the Hogwarts' corridors with Draco, remembered Luna's hand grasping spasmodically at her throat as Malfoy blasted them down. It had been Milner that had found Snape.

Dumbledore nodded, almost imperceptibly, and slowly rose from his chair, moving towards the fireplace in stately, almost stiff motion. Harry felt a moment's surprise, seeing how like an old man his Headmaster seemed now. He leant back in his seat, following Dumbledore with his eyes.

"I had hoped," the Professor sighed, taking a slender gold key from the folds of his robes and swinging back the fascia of a small gold carriage clock on the mantel, "That his concern for Miss Lovegood might discourage him from involving her in his intent." He began to wind the clock, slowly and carefully. "It was shortly after you and your five friends clashed with Voldemort in the Department of Mysteries that Professor Milner first applied to me, seeking employment at Hogwarts. I already knew of his feeling of responsibility towards Luna Lovegood, and it was easy and credible to ascribe that as his reason for taking up the position- a wish to keep her out of harm's way in future," he elucidated, closing the clock once more and returning to his desk. "Although he never mentioned her once. However, the doubt remained- and does still remain, Harry," he added, as he lowered himself into the chair behind the desk, resting his arms along the sides and allowing its high back to support him. "Did I see that which he desired me to see? Was Aloysius Milner using one secret to conceal another- another more dangerous reason for wishing to place himself close to us?" He lifted bushy eyebrows, regarding Harry speculatively from the depths of his chair.

The younger man shrugged his shoulders, and took off his glasses, absently cleaning the lenses with a cloth from his pocket whilst he short-sightedly returned the look given to him by the blurry shape of Albus Dumbledore.

"I can't answer that," Harry apologised. "Not without knowing what he wants, anyway," he added, allowing the faintest edge of accusation to enter his voice.

"Oh, Harry," his teacher shook his head, a low, resigned chuckle issuing forth. "That is a more difficult question than you know- and it points to not one, but _two_ secrets, neither of which I have any intention of discussing further at this time."

"You realise that's both him _and_ Umbridge that have talked about a _second_ prophecy, though?" Harry said it without thinking- and Dumbledore's eyebrows raised again, quizzically.

"Enlighten me, Mr Potter," he murmured, soberly- although with a kindliness in his eyes that, as so often with Professor Dumbledore, seemed to hint that he knew rather more than he pretended to know.

"In Blaise's dream," Harry narrowed his eyes. "Umbridge said- she was talking about me, and how she thought I'd already fulfilled the prophecy when I zapped Voldemort when I was one…"

"Zapped?" The Headmaster's gentle voice sounded part amused, part scandalised, by the term.

"She said," Harry went on, with a slight emphasis, ""The prophecy clearly stated that the boy would have 'Power to vanquish the Dark Lord'- and so he was vanquished." He paused. "Which I suppose is what Percy meant by 'You can't kill him- he's already dead.'" Harry shivered, despite the warmth of the Headmaster's fire. "Anyway, then she started to say: 'Without the other one', but Fudge interrupted her." Harry sat back, watching his mentor's face very carefully. "I think she was talking about another prophecy."

Dumbledore frowned, and clasped his hands beneath his chin once more, buried beneath the snow-white falls of his beard.

"It is an interesting conjecture," he admitted, without committing himself. Harry leant forward, trying to peer into the Headmaster's eyes, but they were shrouded in shadow.

"_Do_ you know anything about another prophecy?" Harry asked, probingly. It was not that he especially expected an answer, but more that he was eager to see how the Professor would react to the question.

The old man shook his head.

"There were many prophecies in the Department of Mysteries, Harry," he told his pupil, "And this war with Voldemort has already proven itself likely to be a pivotal event in wizarding history. I do not think we can assume with any certainty that the prophecy to which it appears Acting Minister Umbridge may be referring, and that which you have told me Professor Milner has spoken of are necessarily the same testament." He sat straighter in his chair. "However, I already intend to pursue some investigation of the Department of Mysteries- it may be of some value to us to discover the truth of Delores' words, whether the Obliviator Gilderoy Lockhart-" he broke off, seeing Harry's surprised look- "Oh yes," Dumbledore smiled, "You need not appear so overly surprised, Harry," the old man chuckled. "I too have considered the import of Blaise's testimony, as relayed by your good self, and I am not yet entirely incapable of reasoned deduction. A former Obliviator whose falsehoods and self-aggrandisement were tolerated by the Ministry as payment for his silence- and a silence which you yourself subsequently guaranteed for them in rather more concrete fashion by arranging for the erasure of his memory. Now," he continued, "If we have evidence that poor Gilderoy did indeed deliberately neglect to remove the memories of those who recorded my memory of Sybil Trelawney's prophecy- and damningly, if Delores was indeed a member of that group, then we shall have evidence to assist in the confirmation of Miss Zabini's tale. During that investigation, I think it may be worth my while to make enquiries as to whether any prophecy existed which our Professor Milner made a habit of studying in any detail."

"He said it was smashed during the fight, sir," Harry pointed out.

"The keepers of prophecy are akin to librarians, Harry- they have long memories and do not entirely dismiss all thought and recollection of those books which no longer reside on their shelves."

The Gryffindor youth rose abruptly to his feet, and paced across the thick pile rug to Fawkes' cage, pausing to look up at the Sorting Hat where it stood, resting on a high bookshelf. Harry turned sharply back to Dumbledore.

"Do you ever wish…" he frowned, searching for the words, "Things could just be… normal? Just for a few weeks?" Harry rubbed his scarred forehead in annoyance. "I don't mean 'normal' like my Aunt and Uncle would mean it," he added, hastily, as the strange- and distinctly disturbing- image of Hogwarts as a Muggle Secondary school intruded on his consciousness, "Just… oh, I don't know…"

"A peaceful, ordinary day, Harry?" Dumbledore enquired genially, as his pupil returned to his seat. "In my experience such days are usually shattered- typically by Professor Snape striding into my office demanding that you be expelled, executed, or possibly excommunicated for your latest contravention of school rules." He paused. "Or, alternatively, by your bursting into my office insisting that Professor Snape is in league with Voldemort on the grounds that he has either passed some unpleasant remark on your timekeeping, marked down your homework, or else simply because he happens to be the Head of Slytherin." He gave Harry a long, warm look over the rims of his spectacles, then removed them to polish them, continuing in somewhat absent-minded vein, "I assure you, Harry, there have been days in the past when I have been sorely tempted to improve the locking spells on that door," he replaced his spectacles, nodding towards the exit as he did so.

Harry grinned, despite himself.

"However, I do acknowledge the source of your frustration. Our foes do seem to multiply at every turn- which," Dumbledore sighed, and folded his arms, looking at Harry as if anticipating disagreement, "… brings me back to the subject of Mr Malfoy, junior."

Harry sat down once more. He waited a moment. He had the marked impression that Dumbledore- for all the old man remained relaxed in his armchair, his expression unchanged, had somehow grown hesitant in turn, as if unsure of how to broach this new topic of conversation. The Boy Who Lived felt his cheeks flush. Surely he hadn't grown _that_ unapproachable and set in his ways these last few months?

Professor Dumbledore patted at his beard thoughtfully.

"The hearing will take place in London," he said, a slow, difficult to identify tone in his voice. Harry looked at him curiously, trying to ignore the grim sense of satisfaction he felt. "That Mr Malfoy committed a distinctly… noticeable breach of school rules is not in question."

"Good," Harry retorted, without thinking.

"However," the Professor went on, "As I think you will see quite clearly, there are rather wider issues at stake than those of school discipline. Especially given the boy's family connections. Severus and Aloysius' evidence has already been submitted, concerning the potion of _zephr caldat_- the board of enquiry are aware that, at the time the attacks on Miss Zabini and your group of friends occurred, Mr Malfoy was in all probability no longer in a fit state to be considered responsible for his actions."

Harry felt a surge of anger at that, and, unbidden, another memory from that fateful night flashed into his mind- Ginny's body, lying unmoving on the snowy hillside, red hair fanned out around it like spreading blood… He started to speak- but Dumbledore continued, before the boy had finished clearing his throat- and the Headmaster's blue eyes held his own with a glittering stare, holding his thoughts captive.

"However, as you are no doubt assuring yourself even now, there is a manner in which that is immaterial. Draco is a competent wizard- and if he willingly drank the potion, placed himself in the power of Peter Pettigrew in order to carry out Lord Voldemort's designs, with the confident knowledge that these actions would bring harm to others, then the fact that Voldemort later betrayed Mr Malfoy's allegiance and planned to kill him as you describe… does not excuse Draco all guilt."

Of course it doesn't.

Harry felt his face reddening with anger. He became aware of a speculative, almost clinical element to the Headmaster's gaze, and sharply looked away.

"That is the purpose of the hearing," Dumbledore continued. "And if Draco Malfoy is found guilty of willing complicity in the plans of Lord Voldemort- he will face trial as a Death Eater. That trial alone would likely mark him for life- the pedigree and traditional loyalties of the Malfoys are hardly likely to tell in his favour in the public eye as strongly as did, say, the reputation of Ludo Bagman… but if found guilty _there_," slowly, Dumbledore rose to his feet, and Harry found his eyes, unwilling, drawn back to look into the Professor's sombre countenance. "It is likely that Draco would be sent to Azkaban prison for the remainder of his life."

For a moment, the dark haired young man sat motionless, listening to his quickening pulse. He clenched his teeth. Azkaban for life? Like Sirius? Harry bit his lip. Back when he was twelve, Hagrid had been sent to Azkaban, while under suspicion for what had turn out to be Ginny's involvement in the opening of the Chamber of Secrets. Neither Harry- nor Ron or Hermione, as far as he knew- had ever asked their friend to talk about that foul place. He half suspected that Ginny might have asked last year, after Harry had inadvertently reminded her of that time, but if she had, she had never told them what answer Hagrid had given. Still, Harry had seen enough of Azkaban- enough, in the eyes of his godfather. Enough, in the wild despair of Barty Crouch. Enough, in Bellatrix Lestrange. He felt a sudden flash of inexplicable anger towards Professor Dumbledore, and looked back, his face hard. It wasn't that he took… pleasure, exactly, in Malfoy's downfall- Harry denied it to himself quite fervently- but none the less, with no solution in sight to the Ministry's duplicity, and with Voldemort still out there, somewhere, ticking against the edge of Harry's consciousness, waiting for… something, it had been satisfying to know that there was just one thing that was… right. Just. Resolved and finished. Malfoy had made his mistake, and would reap the whirlwind… and now Dumbledore had just complicated that one remaining simple triumph.

Turning away again, Harry retrenched his opinions.

"The Dementors are gone now," he said. "If Malfoy does-- well, he deserves it. You know he does!" he swung back- and fell silent.

"Does he, Harry?" Dumbledore was motionless, still and silent, like a statue. "Have you seen Azkaban prison, Harry? Do you know what--?"

"I know Ginny and Blaise might both be dead and it's no thanks to him that they're not!" The younger man rose to his feet, leaning over the desk. "All right, things ran away from him- I'm not saying they didn't, Professor- but you're not telling me he invited Wormtail to come to tea with him and didn't know who it was? He was hiding a Death Eater inside Hogwarts- yes, all right, so that makes him an idiot, but that doesn't stop him being a killer too!" He drew breath, sharply, rasping, and kept his eyes locked on Dumbledore's own. The Professor remained unmoving, eyes unblinking, still.

"He-" Harry closed his own eyes for a moment, and groaned. "He hates me." There- that was it. The core of it. Malfoy had hated Harry- since practically their second meeting, Harry supposed. That hatred had been what had driven the blonde-haired boy to follow his father into evil- that hatred for Harry and everything Harry stood for. Between the two of them, they had pushed each other into opposing paths. For just a second, Harry wondered. Did he see Malfoy as a Voldemort-in-training- or was it more that he saw Voldemort as being like Malfoy, grown-up and powerful? Which was it? His face coloured, and he became aware of the Professor's stare, still cool and calm, prickling against his eyelids.

Would Malfoy have sold himself to the Death Eaters' cause if he and Harry had not been such bitter enemies? A cold stab of guilt twisted in his stomach, and his anger redoubled- directionless, wild. He would _not_ let himself feel guilty over Malfoy's idiocy. The boy had arranged his own sentence in Azkaban- let _him_ worry about that. After all, they might have pushed each other apart, but even back then, it had been Malfoy who had--

"I do not think, Harry, that 'He started it' is a fair or a proper reason to send a sixteen-year-old boy to Azkaban prison, under the circumstances." Dumbledore rose to his feet, coming slowly around the desk. "Not in this case," he went on, one casual gesture of his hand motioning to Harry to remain silent, as the younger man's jaw closed, feeling his face twist in response to the sour feeling in his heart.

"I do not deny the truth of the accusation," Dumbledore remarked, leaning on the desk next to Harry, his arms folded, and head turned, part thrown back, smiling a wan smile. "I believe Mr Weasley had the right of the matter when he described Draco Malfoy as, what was it? Ah, yes, an 'inbred prat'. Additionally, young Draco appears unaware that whatever substance it is he makes use of to control his hair has a distinct aroma of Hippogriff excrement- however, that is by the by." The mischievous smile that had been forming behind the white beard faded. "Such fond and unfond exchanges of insult and derogatory genealogical commentary upon ones' contemporaries are the delight of boyhood, Harry- but if, in his foolish actions last December, your fellow student managed to step far beyond the boundaries of schoolboy rivalry- then I think you will find that it may behove you to set them aside also, in considering what should be his fate."

"I'll tell them the truth," Harry responded, hotly. The Professor's words had stung him- they cut altogether too close to the bone, and far too close to the uncomfortable tone of Harry's own reflections upon himself. He drew himself upright, and moved to the far corner of the desk, putting some distance between himself and the Headmaster. "I'll let who ever judges him decide what to do with him." He glared at Dumbledore through his glasses, daring him to find something wrong with that.

The other man shook his head, a half-mocking smile twitching into place on his lips. Harry started to speak- but Dumbledore cut him off.

"Mr Potter, I had hoped that you would have gone beyond such naivete." Harry's head jerked back, stung, at both his mentor's harsh words, and the almost patronising tone in which he delivered them- both unlike Professor Dumbledore. Moving back behind his desk, apparently giving up the opportunity to speak to Harry without the desk between them as a bad job, and sinking into his chair once more, he looked up at Harry, and read the anger in his eyes with a swift nod of the head.

"It is understandable," he went on, in a kindlier tone. "Unlike Professor Snape, I think that you do know the answer, Harry- but I daresay you remain somewhat loath to acknowledge it." One hand half-curled, fingertips tapping lightly on the desktop. "You are the Boy-Who-Lived. As the Daily Prophet is ever keen to remind us- until the scales of popularity tip again, of course- in the past few years you have fought Voldemort on any number of occasions. On all such occasions you have escaped with life and limb intact. On the last two, you have been victorious against him."

The anger in Harry's stomach had frozen over, and he swallowed, trying to digest an unpalatable conclusion. He knew where Dumbledore was taking this. What was worse, he could see no real way of stopping him. Half-heartedly, he protested that both of those victories had been matters of luck. Besides, by what real measure could 'knocking the Dark Lord over backwards long enough to run away as fast as he could' be called a victory?

Shaking his head, as Harry had known he would, the Headmaster smoothed his beard.

"It is not a matter of the truth, Harry- it is the perception of the truth. Last year, you were known to be unbalanced, possibly brain damaged, certainly indoctrinated by that mad old fool Albus Dumbledore, the senile and/or powerhungry- I believe it changed on a daily basis- Headmaster of Hogwarts who associated with known paranoid dissidents like the unstable ex-Auror Mad-Eye Moody. You were the tragic fool, seeing You-Know-Who--" Harry caught Dumbledore's eye. It was the first occasion he had ever known him avoid the use of Riddle's name. "-- in every shadow. Your word would have meant very little." Dumbledore's fingers stopped their tapping, and his hands clasped in front of him.

"This year- Harry, if you walk into that courtroom with the intention of sending Draco Malfoy to Azkaban, if you deliver your evidence- whether you tell the truth or no- with that intention in mind… Harry, if the Boy Who Lived says that Draco Malfoy is the servant of the Dark Lord, if you, who so many now believe to be their last hope against Voldemort, declare the boy to be your enemy… then come what may, Draco Malfoy will indeed be sent to Azkaban prison. For the rest of his life."

A chill seemed to pass down Harry's spine, and he found himself unable to look away. Dumbledore, his face calm, pleasant, implacable, tilted his head back slightly, looking at Harry through the lenses of his half-moon spectacles.

"Draco has certainly done more than enough to earn your hatred and your vengeance- but before you raise your hand against him, I hope that you will consider the sheer weight of power which is now behind you- and remember the lesson that always, before, you have learned very well- the responsibility which walks with that power, hand in hand." He laid his hands flat upon the desk.

"You must do what you believe to be right, Harry- I do not ask you to lie, neither to conceal nor dispute the truth… but merely that you should enter that courtroom with your eyes open, and know that it is in your power to destroy Draco Malfoy- destroy him completely and utterly, if you so wish. That decision- that choice, is in your hands." Dumbledore lifted his own from the desk, holding them almost in a gesture of surrender. "It is not in mine, Chief Warlock or no. The Wizengamot follows the mood of the people, and to them- at this time- your word in this matter is likely to be taken as law. Oh, they will follow the due course of the law- but if it is plain that Harry Potter regards Draco Malfoy as a Death Eater… then a Death Eater he shall be. That is the choice you will face."

* * *

The school day had not been one of the more successful of Harry's career. Curiously enough, the highlight had come in Potions, during which Harry, barely giving the class one-tenth of his attention, had inadvertently managed to brew a mixture whose fumes had turned Pansy's skin orange, and caused Snape to evacuate the classroom for several minutes. Unfortunately, Snape had retaliated for this by extending the lesson into the dinner hour to recoup the missing time, which had only served to make Harry even more unpopular with his Slytherin classmates. He would never have believed, he had reflected, back at the beginning of this school year, that by January he would be eagerly awaiting having Blaise back as a Potions partner. 

That, of course, had immediately drawn his thoughts back to the reason for her absence, and to Malfoy, and as a result Transfiguration had been more or less as spectacular a success as Potions before lunch. Faced with a class full of ill-tempered sixteen year olds, all boiling over with frustration at seeing their cherished improbable dreams of becoming famous Animagi disappearing down the drain, Professor McGonagall's patience had begun to fray quite noticeably, and when Hannah Abbott had managed to somehow give herself an impressive set of long, black whiskers, but been unable to reverse the process, McGonagall had become quite shrill in ordering the class to sit quietly while she took Hannah to Madam Pomfrey. Harry himself had had even less success than usual, since all his efforts to visualise an animal form had been broken in upon by the repellent toad-like countenance of Acting Minister Umbridge. Or, at least, that was what he assured himself was the reason. At any rate, once McGonagall had gone he'd turned and glared out of the window, seeking inspiration in the grey rain, but seeing little more or less than his own thoughts.

By the evening, and an Advanced Magical Theory class in which he'd been so surly with Milner that the Thaumaturgist had, for once, taken points off him in earnest, Harry had been in no mood whatever to enjoy the evening meal. He and an equally irritable looking Ginny had sat in virtual silence, each glowering at their plates and more or less ignoring their friends' chatter.

A flight around the castle had helped them both to relax. Heavy robes soaked to the skin, both he and his girlfriend had found it a little easier to forget their problems as they ducked and weaved through the buttresses and turrets of the school walls, relying on their memories of the building and their flying reflexes- well-honed by years of Quidditch- to make up for the close-to-non-existent visibility. He'd actually thrown back his head and laughed, as Ginny performed a triple loop-the-loop around a bewildered gargoyle, and had attempted to duplicate the feat. Unfortunately, on his second pass, a bolt of lightning had passed rather closer to him than he would have liked, and, glancing round at the nearby window, he'd observed the glowering features of Professor Snape, watching the two of them with cold anger. He hadn't heard a word Snape had said, as the Professor had bellowed at him through the rain- but the import of the man's pale, gesticulating finger was clear enough, and, as the driving rain worsened, he'd followed Ginny back to the turret of Gryffindor Tower.

Dripping, and their cheeks icy red with cold, the young witch and wizard hurried down the stairs to the common room and its inviting fireplace, Harry pausing only to drop off his Firebolt and Ginny's broom in his dormitory.

"I'm going to save up for a better broom," Ginny decided, wringing out her sleeve and shepherding Trevor back into the boy's room as Harry came out of it. "I think my old Comet's about had it," she sighed, taking his hand and following him downstairs, two at a time. "You should have heard the creaking he was making when I went past that gargoyle."

"Does this mean I'm buying the Butterbeers in Hogsmeade next month?" Harry asked, wryly.

"Why, Harry, how sweet of you to offer to buy me a drink," Ginny teased. "Mind you, knowing our luck, something'll probably explode before I get more than a sip--"

A muffled concussion sounded from below.

"Or sooner," Harry finished for her, quickening his pace without further comment.

"Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow!" As Ginny followed him into the room below, she caught sight of her brother, hopping round the room in a small circle, waving one arm wildly, a trail of flame flickering after it through the air.

"Ron, for heavens' sake," Hermione grabbed him by the shoulder, casting a banishing charm at the burning object attached to his hand. With a sharp retort of impacting metal, it flew into the fire, and went up in a shower of blue sparks.

"What happened?" Ginny hurried past Harry and examined her brother's hand, as Ron- rather awkwardly, and fumbling one-handedly through a book as he did so, cast a healing charm upon it, giving Hermione a smug look as he did so. The latter girl, observing this, pulled a face at him behind his back as he sat down, and then settled again in the next chair, as their two friends joined them. Ron put aside the book of healing spells, and turned his attention once more to the large book pressed open on the floor in front of him, in amidst what appeared to be a small pile of household rubbish. He swished his wand lightly over an old sock, then tapped it.

"Portus," the red haired boy muttered, dubiously. Nothing happened. He stared at it for a moment. Opposite them in the semi-circle of chairs around the fireplace, Colin looked up from helping a young first year girl with her Arithmancy, and tensed himself, ready for flight. Nothing continued to happen, and, after a moment, Ron exhaled, in relief tinged with exasperation.

"D'you reckon it's worked, this time?" he asked. Hermione, who had returned to her newspaper- which had a number of singe-marks in it, Harry noticed- gave him a waspish look over the top of it.

"Oh, let's not expect too much," she cautioned him sharply. "It hasn't exploded or turned into a Catherine Wheel yet- that's good enough for me- not to mention anyone else in here who's had one of those wretched things go after them." There was a distinct snippiness to her tone which, judging from his flinch and glare of annoyance, Ron definitely noticed. A little way away, Parvati gave a prim and bad tempered nod of agreement.

"Well, I'm going to try touching it," Ron said, after a moment, and paused, as if waiting for something. He glanced at Hermione, but she retreated behind the Daily Prophet with a chilly glance, and crossed her legs. Ron sighed again, and tentatively reached out a hand. Ginny shuffled a little closer to Harry in the armchair they were sharing, and Colin Creevey carefully lifted his legs off the ground. Screwing his eyes up tight, Ron touched the sock.

The sock vanished, with a sharp crack, and very little smoke, most of which dissipated after Neville reached up and opened a window. Ron, however, remained clearly and solidly there- for all that it took him a few moments to realise the fact. Finally, he opened first one eye, then the other, and looked round from his position, crouched on the charred hearthrug, one arm stretched out, his face frozen in a look of fear and the anticipation of pain. Someone sniggered. Harry suspected it was Dean.

"Oh, I _give_ up!" getting to his feet and stomping across the rug, Ron threw himself back into his chair. "Stuff Portkeys. Who needs them, anyway. I'll be able to Apparate this summer anyhow, and then--"

"Well maybe if you'd just pay attention in Professor Flitwick's class in the first place," Hermione grated from behind her newspaper, "You might find it a little easier to--"

"Anyway," Ginny said loudly, turning to Harry as she did so, plainly not wishing to sit through another of her brother and Hermione's arguments-by-rote, "Some of us are still trying to get our OWLs. I've got a couple of things I need to look up in the library, before I can graduate to making exploding Portkeys for my NEWTs."

Harry walked with her over to the portrait hole.

"Do you want me to come with you?" he asked.

"No, because I want to actually read the books," she retorted, pulling him back against the doorframe and giving him a kiss. "We might get distracted. You stay here and try to stop those two going through the whole script." Harry pulled a face at her, and returned her kiss quite seriously, before returning to sit by the fire. It seemed at first, however, that his farewell to Ginny had had the desired effect in and of itself- Ron met him with an irritable look- evidently he'd caught sight of the two of them kissing in the portrait hole- and had lost the thread of his argument.

Ron picked up a dented fizzy drink can and weighed it in his hand thoughtfully.

"I think it's the making sure the spell includes the spell caster that I can't quite get," he ruminated, after a few minutes thought, clearly having forgotten his earlier vow to give up Portkeys indefinitely. "Maybe if…" He glanced at Hermione.

"No," she replied, without looking, her paper held up so as to shield her completely from Ron's look. Ron hurled the can to the floor in disgust, and turned his back on her.

"It was an accident!" he protested, after a moment.

"A Portkey," Hermione's voice continued, in a withering tone that sounded altogether too much like that of Professor McGonagall's own for Harry to believe that it was entirely unassumed, "Follows the course laid out for it by the person who enchants it."

"Maybe, but I didn't mean…"

"If the spell caster's conscious mind is not sufficiently focused to properly direct it," the girl went on from behind a headline about the Ministry of Magic that Harry was resolutely trying not to read, after the morning's frustrations, "Then it will be influenced by the subconscious thoughts of the caster." She turned a page, with infinite majesty and calm. "It will go where it is sent," she finished.

Ron's face flushed, and he started to say something, then stopped, looking round the common room like a trapped rabbit. A number of faces turned his way, eager for a little interest and variety in their evening's entertainment. He shot a pleading look in Harry's direction.

"Anything interesting in the news?" Harry asked, with an internal groan, while moving chairs to sit next to Hermione. She started to move the newspaper to block him from her view, then stopped, realising that he was not Ron, and lowered it slightly, shaking her head.

"Nothing much. More from the Ministry--" Harry grimaced, and Hermione indicated the front cover article. "But it's all talk, really," she sighed, grumpily. "Head of Emergency Bureaucracy Philemus Santonine promises new measures, Acting Minister Delores Umbridge--" Dean muttered something unrepeatable, "-- would like to assure the public that the Ministry is preparing to implement a new strategy to restore the Wizarding world to a state of safety and combat the threat of You-Know-Who," the girl continued. She shook her head. "They spend more time taking people's criticisms of them, polishing them up a bit, and spinning them round to look like achievements than they do actually doing anything. I hope this isn't what the future of politics is going to be like."

Harry folded his arms and turned to face the fire, all the angers and annoyances of the day flooding back.

"And all the while Voldemort's sitting somewhere, skulking and chuckling to himself while those idiots hang us out to dry," he muttered. Opposite them, the first year girl's face went white, and she stifled a small shriek.

"Dumbledore didn't tell you anything else after we'd gone, then?" Ron asked, clearly hoping that, if Hermione wouldn't talk to him, he might at least talk to Harry. The Boy Who Lived, not relishing being caught as a go-between between his two best friends again, shook his head curtly.

"Just gave me something else to worry about."

"Harry, maybe Dumbledore's right," Hermione crumpled her newspaper in her lap. A photograph of a bald man with large ears and a small, round head creased down the middle, and the man attempted to squeeze himself into the bottom half of the picture frame. "He's much more likely to get results out of dealing with the Ministry than we are," she added, seeing Harry's dangerous expression. "As I seem to keep saying," Hermione added, more sharply, "You can't do everything at once. Leave Umbridge to Dumbledore. Concentrate--"

"On Voldemort." Harry finished the sentence. The girl opposite them dropped her books on the floor, and made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a groan. "Yeah, all right." He continued, and then brooded for a second, before adding, compelled by the fresh burst of bad temper, "But if I have to fight my way round Umbridge to get to him, I'll make her regret it."

"Which is exactly the sort of silly posturing that makes Professor Dumbledore more likely to succeed at the Ministry than you would be, Harry," Hermione rejoined, coolly. Harry's jaw dropped.

"But-- I…" With an exasperated sigh, he turned away from her, and Hermione raised her newspaper once more.

"Well done, mate," Ron muttered, rolling his eyes. "What's the plan- if you get her not talking to you, she'll have to talk to me?" He gave a derisive snort.

"In your dreams," Ron added, and Hermione commented, in the same breath. Each made a startled noise- Hermione's a sharp intake of breath from behind the Daily Prophet, as she hastily shuffled the pages. The round-headed man on the cover held on to the sides of his picture in annoyance.

"Sorry," Harry apologised, although he was unable to entirely keep his bad mood out of his voice. "I just wish- people wouldn't keep complicating everything. The Ministry, Malfoy, and-" he growled, and rubbed ferociously at the scar on his forehead. "I forgot," he groaned. "We didn't get one thing out of Dumbledore about--" his voice dropped, not wishing to carry Luna's secrets to the entire Gryffindor common room, "-- Luna's mum, either." He dashed a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his eyes. "Voldemort's enough to cope with, without--"

"Will you stop that?" Colin stamped his foot on the ground, and glared angrily at Harry. The first year had snatched up her homework, and fled across to the girls' dormitories, sobbing.

"What?" Harry blinked at him. Colin Creevey's eyes flashed.

"Saying You-Know-Who's name every two seconds, like it's something really clever or special or something."

"It's a damn sight cleverer than calling him 'He Who Must Not Be Named'," Harry retorted, half-getting to his feet. "I'll call him anything I like- I'm not going to let--"

"Yes, we get the flaming point!" Colin shouted at him. "Do you think we don't know that? I know his name, thanks a lot. It doesn't mean I want to be reminded what it means every five minutes. Some of us would actually like to be able to forget that V-Vol-Voldemort's out there for a while, because that way we can try to get on with our lives for a bit, actually!" His lip trembled, and his fists unclenched and clenched, but he stood his ground, looking hard at Harry.

"Some of us can't forget about it," Harry snapped back, "Even for a while, whatever you want to call him, thanks a lot."

Colin quailed at that, and half-sat down again, his face still rather white.

"Just… watch your mouth a bit," he said, finally.

Ron snorted loudly.

"What, whenever your new girlfriend's around, you mean?"

Hermione put her newspaper down in a hurry, her face very red.

"Ron Weasley, you arrogant--" She broke off, sharply, as Colin's fist knocked Ron sideways in his chair.

"Her father got killed by Death Eaters last summer, you prat," he hissed at Ron, who stopped in the act of throwing a punch back at the younger boy to slowly drain of colour, and blink several times. He turned, looking towards Harry and Hermione in a silent appeal. Hermione turned her back on him.

"I'm sorry, Colin," Ron held out his hand, his face blanched with chagrin. "I didn't know." Harry nodded his own apology as Colin shook Ron's hand, with a certain amount of ill grace. Harry stood in silence for a few moments. Hermione was turning the pages of the Daily Prophet furiously, her face livid and her lips occasionally moving as she mouthed various imprecations on the subject of red-headed Weasley boys- and quite possibly also on the subject of bespectacled Potters- to the largely uninterested pages, and Ron, mortified and unsure quite where to look, gathered up his little collection of failed Portkeys and stumped off up to bed with only a muttered 'goodnight' to Harry as he went.

Well, what a great evening so far, then.

Harry crossed to one of the windows, looking down in the general direction of the library. The storm had grown worse, now, and the rain was sluicing down over the glass. He couldn't even see the Astronomy Tower, much less the library, and wondered suddenly if Ginny would exactly _mind_ if he were to put on his Invisibility Cloak and sneak down to join her. The other part of his mind vetoed the notion. The last thing he needed was a fight with Ginny, to put the seal of perfection on the day- and, going by previous experience, the likelihood of him being able to hold a conversation with _anyone_ today without disagreement seemed virtually non-existent. With a sharp intake of breath, he turned, and headed back up to bed.

Ron had already undressed and climbed into his four-poster when Harry arrived, and was sitting up, winding his alarm clock with a certain excessive amount of force. Harry nodded to him as he changed for bed himself, running a finger over his chin and examining himself in the washbasin mirror as he did so. Finally deciding that he would, in fact, be safe to leave his nascent stubble unhexed for another day or so- which was probably wise, remembering the bloody mess which had resulted the last time he'd tried to shave in a bad temper, and, you never know, if he left it long enough it might actually darken to match his hair, instead of remaining ridiculously downy fuzz, Harry brushed his teeth.

"What's biting her tonight?" Ron grumbled- meaning Hermione, Harry assumed.

He climbed into bed, and pushed his cold feet beneath the covers.

"Same as all of us, I think," he sighed. "Waiting for something to happen." He heard Ron grunt, and turn over on to his side. Harry lay there for a moment, idly contemplating the globe Ginny had bought him for Christmas. He reached out a hand, and turned it gently on its stand- until the sounds of wind on water elicited a muffled complain from Ron, who was trying to sleep. Harry sighed, and looked closer at the British Isles- so small and quiet on the face of the world.

"Where are you, Riddle?" he growled, softly. "What are you planning?" Turning over and punching his pillow, Harry fell into a troubled sleep.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Yes, I know it's been rather a long time. I got very disillusioned (not in the invisibility charm) sense with the story and where it was going- although I rather liked the last chapter I did, 47, the previous few just seemed to be meandering about, and I was actively growing to dislike the somewhat arrogant direction Ginny's character seemed to be heading in of her own accord. However, I've kept at things, occasionally trying one different draft or another, in amongst work on other projects. Reading Book 7 of the official universe re-fired my interest and imagination a little, and finally chapter 48 is ready- and, more or less, follows the original plan. I've mended my fences with Ginny Weasley- make no mistake, she is still heading down a rather unwise path- but at least now I'll be on her side, rather than thinking 'Serves you right', and I can see my way clear, plot-wise, to the end of the Spring Term, at least. 

Direction continues as before- much as I enjoyed Half Blood Prince and Deathly Hallows, this is an alternate universe, and I have no plans to converge. Those that die will die, those that live will live. Some will be different, some will be the same.

Now:

Review Responses:

**Wolf's Scream & Forsaken 163: **I knew there was one big slip-up I'd missed, but I couldn't find it myself for the life of me. Thanks... I think. :-)

**Mad Ant:** On power levels... Ginny is stronger than Ron, yes- but, on the other hand, she's possibly even more headstrong than her brother, so that very strength can be a weakness. As far as Hermione goes- that's slightly more complex. She's got more raw power to play around with than Hermione has- and she also has her spellweaver's instincts. On the flipside of that, though, she doesn't fully know how to best use those instincts, and she just flat doesn't know as much as Hermione. To give a crude analogy, if presented with a locked door, Ginny could probably sit down and, working from first principles, eventually work out a brand new unlocking spell, turn the tumblers, and open the door. Hermione couldn't do that. Hermione, on the other hand, would be much more likely to notice that the key was lying on the doormat. Even more importantly, if Hermione used an unlocking spell, she would first take the time to make certain that it wouldn't demolish the wall as well as the door. Between Ginny and Harry... it's close. Very close. Harry's actually the stronger in combat, but that's more down to the nature of his talent and his greater experience than it is to raw magical power. He also has his connection with Voldemort, which thoroughly distorts the scales. Harry _could_ beat Voldemort. Ginny couldn't beat Voldemort in a million years... but Ginny possibly _could_ beat Harry. There's more to combat than power.

**Rocks: **Kevin Quirrell, like Virginia Weasley, are their names in this universe. In both cases, I don't think either name's mentioned in the text of the first five books- if it is, please feel free to assume that Milner was just taking the mickey out of Quirrell.

**Wolf's Scream again:** I passed GCSE Mathematics by sheer luck. True, I got an A- but I still to this day have no idea how, so I may well give logarithms a pass, since if I tried to use them I'd probably accidentally break mathematics and make 2+25 or something. Regarding the A-K and the rest of Ranbrot's happy little family of curses, I felt there had to be a reason why the Death Eaters didn't just blaze away with the Avada all the time.

**Ginny2026:** The sequel, probably entitled "The Last Word" (a slight in-joke from the days when we were told that the only think JK Rowling was willing to publicly admit about book 7 was that the last word would be 'scar' (and it wasn't)) will definitely be forthcoming, once I've managed to finish this one- which will hopefully be before 2026. So far it exists as an extremely rough plot outline, a penultimate chapter, three character sketches, and a doodle of a wizard named Zanzibar Reaver.

**Dizbuster:** To be honest, I can't recall Akira that well- but I have seen it, so it may be.

**Voakands: **The ritual was dangerous. Very dangerous. Ron commented that it looked a lot like Dark Magic when he saw the set up for it, and he wasn't far off. Remember, though, that the _total_ invasion of privacy they experienced was only temporary- as Harry reflected, in future months he'd have quite liked to be able to remember some of the things he learned about Ginny during that ritual. Extreme circumstances. It does have quite a pivotal role to come, though, yes- and you're close to the mark, if one of them cast an Unforgivable Curse on another member of the quartet, there would be a few fireworks going off in their heads.

**EvilMastermind666:** I don't suppose you can remember now either, but I'd be intrigued to know which it was that you thought was messed up about Chapter 16- Luna and her darling uncle, or young Voldy's visit to his old Headmaster?


	49. Lateral Thinking

****

**Chapter Forty-Nine:** Lateral Thinking

A sullen sky hung, grey and leaden, over the Great Hall the next morning, and the dull drumbeat of dejected rain pattered against the tiny embrasure like windows along the south side as Harry watched Professor McGonagall's eyes pass over the plan he'd sketched out. Of Dumbledore there was no sign- his customary chair was drawn back, and no place had been set for him at the breakfast table.

He'd slept badly- no uncommon thing these past few years, but Harry supposed it was a sign of his frustration that the _lack_ of Voldemort's presence in his mind now seemed to disturb his rest almost as much as the Dark Lord's earlier intrusions.

_Don't be ridiculous,_ he snapped at himself. _Remember Janet Powell? Remember Percy? _A dark knot took shape in his stomach, and he tugged his thoughts away hurriedly.

He became aware of the deputy Headmistress looking up at him speculatively. The idea had come to him in the grey hours before dawn, when he'd finally despaired of any sleep more restful than the fretful half-doze he had endured since midnight, and stolen quietly down to the Common Room to sit by the fire and talk to Dobby. He had almost rediscovered sleep again when, perhaps an hour before breakfast time, Ginny had been the first of the girls to descend, still wrapped in her oversized dressing gown, hair tangled and wild, and eyes full of sleep.

Harry had watched her in silence for a moment, neither awake enough to speak nor conspicuous enough to be noticed, as she wandered across to the fireplace and sat down in the chair he had been using last night, gratefully accepting a cup of coffee from Dobby- who seemed, it appeared, to have learned to expect these early morning visitations from one student or another.

He rather liked the sight of Ginny early in the morning, he decided. A more cynical part of his brain enquired if he there was, actually, any particular time of day when Ginny was _not_ a welcome sight, but he shushed it firmly. In public together, the two of them had something of a habit of living in a war of words, tossing ideas and wordplay back and forth at- sometimes- frenetic speed- and yet, at times, many times, those spoken words were only one of several conversations passing between them. It was- Harry had frowned then, and become aware that the movement had drawn her eye- it was rather like that elusive harmony that Milner spoke of, except of thought, rather than sorcery. Of course, Hermione would have it that those two were one and the same thing, but none the less… in public, Harry and Ginny communicated _through_ their conversation, more often than _by _it. It was a perfectly adequate means of communication- indeed, an exhilarating one- but still, there was something special to him about the sight of Ginny, alone, and with all defences set aside. It made him think of Helena's Nest, and peaceful solitude side by side.

The others had joined them soon enough, naturally- first Hermione, apparently intent on a few moment's quiet of her own before breakfast, then others- Ron one of the later arrivals. At some point Ginny had slipped back upstairs to bathe and dress, and Harry had explained his plan to the other two of them.

He'd been relieved to see it accepted so readily. Ron and Hermione seemed to be avoiding each other's eyes a little, but other than that neither mentioned their disagreements of the previous night- except, in Hermione's case, to apologise to Harry for her shortness of temper.

He'd accepted that without demur- after all, he was acutely aware of his own probable part in contributing to her irritation. Hedwig was already well on her way, bearing a placatory and embarrassingly humble apology to the sender of yesterday's Howler - but also an entreaty to reconsider the same request. He had not felt it necessary to share that fact with either of his two old friends, and so it had been with a certain amount of guilt that he had hastily outlined his plans for the evening's entertainments.

"This is over one quarter of the third floor, you realise, Mr Potter?" Minerva McGonagall broke the silence, folding Harry's map neatly over her arm. Harry was uncomfortably aware of Snape, sitting a few paces to the left of McGonagall at the breakfast table, and regarding him with a contemptuous sneer. He felt suddenly tempted to warn the Potions Master of the danger of his accidentally curdling the milk around his Sugar Brooms. McGonagall coughed, meaningfully, and Harry's eyes pulled back to her with a jerk.

"Are you sure that you will be able to control your little group over so large an area of the school unsupervised?" she asked Harry, eyes narrowed behind her spectacles.

"Well- I've got this-" Harry indicated the map. He could feel his ears burning, slightly, and was acutely conscious of a number of curious stares levelled at the back of his head from around the Hall- not least Ginny's, standing next to him. "Besides, there's Ron, and Hermione- they're both Prefects, and--"

"- In the case of Mr Weasley, typically the one to break the saucer immediately after you have shattered the cup," McGonagall interjected wryly. "However," she went on, more kindly, seeming to take note of the embarrassment on Harry's face, "Professor Dumbledore did recommend that we give your Association our full support- within the boundaries of school rules, naturally, Harry- and I daresay that we may rely on Miss Granger to preserve a certain sense of rationality and common sense." The Deputy Headmistress regarded him sternly. "Do I have your word that you will do your utmost to avoid causing any damage to the fixtures and fittings of the school- or to your fellow students?" she added, "Which is of somewhat greater importance, although I imagine Mr Filch might argue otherwise."

"Of course, Professor," Harry nodded. McGonagall wordlessly handed the map across to him, and began to lower herself back into her seat, next to the Headmaster's vacant chair. Dumbledore had left for London before any of them had left Gryffindor Tower that morning- whether on the business of the Order or in the matter of Malfoy, Harry was not certain. Sensing themselves dismissed, the two students started to turn away.

"Mr Potter? Miss Weasley?" Professor McGonagall called them back, leaning forward, silver spoon half-raised over her eggcup. "As a matter of curiosity- for what purpose _do_ you require the use of the space this evening?"

Ginny shrugged her shoulders, and gave Harry an old-fashioned sort of look.

"I've no idea, Professor," she confessed. "The last I heard, tonight's meeting was just going to be a nice, friendly little duel." She raised her eyebrows slightly, and eyed Harry with a certain playful resignation. "I get the impression it's grown, though." She took Harry's hand, and peered at him impishly. "Or maybe he's just hoping to have more room to run in. It sounds suspiciously like a war game to me- afraid to face me one on one, are you?" She exchanged a grin with Harry- both were well enough aware of their own respective skills to know that such a contest would be a little too close to call.

Harry allowed his own smile to lengthen, very slightly, and demurred, giving her the ghost of a wink,

"Maybe a duel can mean more than one thing," he suggested.

"Cheating, Mr Potter?"

"Just a bit of lateral thinking, Miss Weasley."

"A duel?" McGonagall's face grew confused for a moment, and her eyes flickered down- not entirely approvingly- to the young couple's clasped hands. "I was under the impression that--" Then her mouth closed- and for a moment, Harry thought that she might have swallowed a piece of eggshell by mistake, as the Deputy Headmistress's shoulders twitched. McGonagall covered her mouth delicately with one hand as she gave voice to a faint and dignified chuckle.

"Dear me, how that takes one back, don't you think?" McGonagall glanced over at the diminutive Professor Flitwick, who returned a knowing little smile, stretching up to peer over his plate at the students. "Why, I remember the time, Filius, when you carried around pocket handkerchiefs from half the girls in the castle as tokens of victory."

"Hardly that, Minerva," the little man's piping voice responded with gallant modesty, a somewhat roguish grin finding its way across his wrinkled features none the less. "Incidentally, young Harry, should anything get a little out of control, you'll find a lovely little room just opposite that tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy- always used to use it if I'd had a duel with a young lady. Well stocked with bandages and all sorts of--" He coughed, abruptly, and sat back in his chair, seemingly impelled by a quelling glance from Professor McGonagall.

The representatives of the younger generation looked at each other. Harry's eyes flicked half-incredulously to Flitwick, then back to Ginny, who gave his hand a light squeeze, and a slight but unmistakeable pull backwards toward the rest of the Hall.

_No,_ Harry silently agreed with her, as they stepped down from the dais and headed back towards their House table, _I don't think I want to know either, to be perfectly honest with you._

"What's going on?" Ron asked, looking up. At least, Harry supposed that was what he had been saying before the emergent words had encountered Ron's breakfast going the other way. He shook his head, sitting down in the space between Ron and Hermione and pouring a glass of pumpkin juice.

"We have dipped into the future," Ginny intoned hollowly, reaching across the table and helping herself to the marmalade from the side of her brother's plate.

"What's it like?" Ron asked, hastily scooping up a fraction of his rapidly diminishing hoard and applying it to his toast. "Other than bright and orange," he added, observing his marmalade vanishing into his sister with a look of faint frustration.

"I think we just saw you and Hermione six hundred years into the future," Harry murmured, attempting to knock a stray lock of hair away from his glasses.

"How _did_ I kill him?" Hermione enquired calmly, without looking up from her book. Ron turned to look at her, his jaw working uselessly, expression somewhat incredulously demanding of Harry what he, Harry, supposed that he, Ron, had done _now._ Harry returned the look with an amiable grin, and then glanced back at Hermione again.

"Hermione?" He decided it would be safe to risk a small amount of humour, and so put the request in the most wheedling tone possible, stressing all four syllables of his friend's name.

"No, I can't find the hundred-and-first use of dragon's blood for you before tonight," she retorted, after closing her book with an exasperated drawing of breath. "And Excalibur is probably buried under Milton Keynes, although it's guarded by a cockatrice." She looked up, brightly. "Or did you want Pi to six thousand decimal places?"

Harry held up his hands in a gesture of surrender- and further conversation was temporarily interrupted as Professor McGonagall rose to her feet to give voice to a number of announcements. He was pleased to note a satisfying ripple of interest which followed his Head of House's reminder to the student body that Harry was inviting all students, including any newcomers, to attend the first DA meeting of term. He was even, he would have had to admit, to be perfectly honest, a little smug to note that, while the DA announcement apparently rated lower on McGonagall's list of priorities than a reminder from Professor Sprout that First Years were not to play in Greenhouse Three, on account of the dangers of accidentally de-potting teenaged mandrakes, he was none the less considered more important than Filch's threats of terrible retribution towards whichever student had been leaving fish lying around in the corridors.

"I just wanted to know if you could set up a charm for tonight," he asked her, once McGonagall had swept out, gathering up a still bewhiskered and distressed Hannah Abbott along the way. "We're going to need something to divide the DA into two teams- and I'd like some way of tracking them on the Marauder's Map, if you can think of anything?"

"A _little_ more advance notice might have helped, Harry," she gave him a menacingly cheery grin. "Still, I'm sure Ron can help me come up with something."

"Me?" Ron gaped.

"The thought occurs, Ron, that a Quidditch Captain might just possibly have some idea of a charm to choose and mark practice teams," she sighed, fingers twitching and visibly resisting a certain temptation to wipe a large glob of marmalade from the corner of his mouth. Finally, she dropped the napkin and got to her feet, folding her arms and waiting. "Come along."

"Sometimes I feel like I could do with an interpreter between those two," Harry seized the rest of Ron's abandoned toast as the other boy followed Hermione out, grumbling to himself as he went. "Maybe they could put up some sort of timetable on the wall- you know, on Monday they'll be friends, Tuesday they'll be spitting insults at each other, Wednesday if you turn your back on them for five minutes they'll be kissing like two confused Dementors, Thursday--" He grimaced. "It'd be nice to know what to expect."

He became aware of Ginny leaning back against the wall, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly. Harry took off his spectacles, rubbed his eyes, and put them back on again, then nodded in realisation.

"That's what's getting on Hermione's nerves, isn't it?"

Ginny pushed her hands back through her hair, pulling it away from her face in a business-like manner, and nodded.

"I think so... Ron spent years being my big brother before Hogwarts," she said, thoughtfully. "He was the one who kept Fred and George off my back until I was old enough to stand up for myself. The thing is- here- well, you're in charge, aren't you?"

Harry nodded. Part of him felt inclined to blame circumstances- and Voldemort- for that, but other parts of his brain pointed out the fallacy of that. He supposed, if anything, he'd put it down to their family backgrounds- Ron had grown up around older brothers, had been used- he'd assumed- to following in their wake, while he, Harry, had only had Dudley, and he'd hardly been inclined to follow in Dudley's footsteps. Striking out alone- not to mention sidestepping the rules- had always been his childhood instincts, simply because if he'd been content to do what was expected and hoped of him, he'd have sat in a cupboard all day, every day. What was it McGonagall had just said? That Ron would be there, breaking the saucer, _after_ Harry had broken the cup. He looked back at Ginny, who met his glance and nodded.

"It's the same with Hermione," Ginny commented quietly, finishing her breakfast. "She doesn't mean to boss him around--"

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"All right, she doesn't _usually_ mean to boss him around," Ginny amended, with a grin. "But it's not easy, sitting back and letting someone else do the wrong thing- and I think Hermione usually sees a couple of steps ahead of the rest of us." There was a certain irony in her tone- Harry remembered the two young witches' difference of opinion on the subject of magical experimentation.

"Ginny, I'm sure he's loved her since third year," Harry protested, getting to his feet. "Almost before she noticed him, I think."

"Maybe- but I don't think Ron's willing to be led into this," Ginny defended her brother, swinging her legs over the bench and gathering up her belongings. "She's very important to him, Harry."

Harry nodded. He knew that well enough, really, he had to admit, and sighed, determinedly setting it to the back of his mind. He had an uncomfortable feeling that any attempt- however well-meaning- to help his friends in this sort of situation would lead to complete disaster. "Do you suppose Little Tommy has to put up with this sort of thing?" he asked, lightly, as they reached the end of the hall. "After you."

"No, after you, Mr Potter." Ginny narrowed her eyes. "I shouldn't think so. Bellatrix Lestrange is probably everybody's Death Eater for half a pint of Butterbeer and a couple of Knuts."

"With the possible exception of Snape."

"True, I doubt even her taste's _that _bad." Ginny groaned at the reminder, as they turned into the corridors. "Harry, blow something up so I don't have to do Double Potions with him this morning."

"No." Harry gave her a deadpan look as they started to approach a knot of her fellow Fifth Years. "At least your class isn't the Death Eater Youth Movement." A small scuffle ahead slowed them down, and Harry fixed Daniel Skarloey- a Slytherin- with a stony look. Wordlessly, he waited, watching the younger boy icily, and Skarloey abruptly released Neil Dry's collar (Hufflepuff), and scuttled away. He heard Ginny release an irritated breath.

"How are you getting on with OWLs, anyway?" he asked, after a moment.

"Well," Ginny wrinkled her nose at him. "Defence should be all right," she adjusted the position of the bag on her back, and continued along the corridor. "Whatever else he is, Milner's a decent teacher. Potions…" she made a doubtful noise, and then grimaced, eyebrows knotted in frustration. "I really don't know what I'm going to do in Transfiguration though."

"Transfiguration?" Harry looked at her in surprise. "You're brilliant at it, Gin," he protested. "You turned Malfoy into a ferret, didn't you?" She gave a brief, answering grin at the memory, and then scowled again.

"How?" she asked, with a small hint of bitterness in her tone.

"I don't get--"

"_Please show your working,_" Ginny parroted, grumpily. "If the McGonagall had one of those pens like Umbridge I'd have that tattooed across my forehead by now- probably in a couple of other places as well." She glowered, turning the corner towards the Potions dungeon. "I mean- I don't know," a certain air of resentment entered her voice. "If it works, shouldn't that be enough? We're supposed to be studying Transfiguration, not 'How Ginny's brain works.'"

"Well, how do you do things?" Harry asked, reasonably enough, he felt. "Just- sit down and think it through."

"I don't know," she repeated, in exasperation, but shot a half-resigned smile at him as she did so. "I just do what, well, what feels right, I suppose. Hence all the red ink and comments about needing a more cognitive approach." She rolled her eyes. "If she says that word to me one more time, I think I'll scream and turn myself into a teapot. Then she can spend the rest of the day asking a teapot to show its working."

Harry gave his girlfriend a long sideways look, the image of a small, infuriated red teapot competing for space with Ginny in his brain. His attempt to keep a straight face was almost successful.

"At least it's better than getting 'Read the books, Potter' scrawled across your work," he commented, quietly.

"History of Magic?" she guessed.

"You've got no idea how glad I was to drop that one this year."

"You mean you had a choice?" Ginny commented, archly, leaning back against the wall. "Professor Binns would have accepted you into the NEWT class if you'd asked?"

Harry considered that.

"Well…." he drew it out, nodding to himself. "All right, maybe not. I was only borderline Dreadful, though," he added, in hasty self-defence. Ginny tilted her head slightly, and went on looking at him. "Maybe it was the fact that it was borderline with Troll," Harry muttered, rather hoping that his voice would not carry to Ginny's classmates, further down the corridor, but unable to resist a wry grin none the less. "Two marks off it, I think- and to be honest, I think one of those was because I spelled my name right."

"Well," Ginny stood up straight again. "At least you learned something." She glanced at her watch, and indicated the rest of her class waiting outside the Potions classroom. "I'd better go."

Harry nodded. "Knowing Snape, he won't have forgotten about seeing us flying last night. Better not get on his nerves any more today."

"See you later, then." Ginny grinned impudently at him, and made to slip away. Harry returned the grin with twinkling eyes and leant forward to intercept her with a kiss. Quite suddenly, the corridor full of interested Fifth Years felt more like a challenge than a reason to avoid gossip. _Let them gawp for once_, he decided.

"I was not aware, Mr Potter, that you had been sent back down to repeat your Fifth Year Potions Class," a familiar voice rapped out, a familiar vein of silky venom twisting through it.

Ginny jerked back from him, wincing, as black robes billowed past in the periphery of his vision. Harry closed his eyes, and groaned. _I'm going to put a bell on him, one of these days._

"However," Professor Snape went on, "I cannot account it wholly unexpected. None the less, I should appreciate it if you would offer some prior warning before arriving at a class for which you are not expected- your company is not so precious to me that I am over-eager to enjoy its delights without prior warning."

"I was just- talking with Ginny, sir--"

"Indeed?" Snape's eyes glittered malevolently, and he turned on his heel to face Harry, hands resting on his hips so that the out-flung folds of his cape seemed to almost fill the corridor, screening off the other students behind him. "I would have thought that, in your position, you might consider it a higher priority to attend your classes and gather what knowledge of the advanced magical arts you can, rather than to loiter in the corridors conversing with the first pretty girl to come your way, Potter."

"Thank you," Ginny murmured, quietly, eliciting a nervous chuckle from some of her classmates. Snape's dark, hollow eyes turned on her, wordlessly, and she closed her mouth abruptly, cheeks colouring slightly. With a jerk of his head, the Potions Master indicated the waiting classroom behind him.

"Inside, Miss Weasley," he snapped. "I will not tolerate OWL students' lesson time being delayed and interrupted by Mr Potter's habitual contretemps." He turned, as Ginny slipped past him- giving Harry an apologetic look as she did so. Harry returned it with a dry smile. Curiously enough, being publicly mocked by Severus Snape bothered him rather less now than in the past. If nothing else, it might help encourage his fellow students to remember that he was one of them. "You will all turn to page sixty-one of your textbooks, and read the chapter on the preparation of Roman Langewurm entrails. I shall expect to be able to ask questions of you on its content when I return," Snape added, dangerously, before swinging back to face Harry, and fixing him with a cold stare. "In the meantime, I think a private word with Mr Potter seems in order." He nodded towards an empty classroom on the other side of the corridor, and gestured curtly. "Inside."

Harry moved into the classroom silently, going to the middle of the front row of mildewed, long-unused desks and turning about, half-sitting on the grey-green wood, and watching, his face carefully blank, as Professor Snape entered, closing the door behind him and striding across to the teacher's desk. He eyed the Death Eater closely. Harry had a strong suspicion that it was likely to be Order business, rather than school matters, which concerned Snape- simply because, had Snape's desire to speak with Harry been purely on the issue of nearly kissing Weasleys in corridors, he thought he knew Snape well enough to be fairly confident that the Potions Master would have preferred to upbraid him in public- in as public a venue as possible, for preference.

Severus Snape folded his arms, head tilted back, and regarded Harry haughtily through narrowed eyes. The younger man tensed, gathering in his concentration as he read much of his own thoughts in Snape's visage. With a flash of his eyes, Harry drew in his mind, visualising thick, solid lines and bars spreading out from the scar at his temple. He felt a faint flutter, birdlike, tugging at an exposed corner of emotion, and cold damp emptiness descended upon it abruptly. Not taking his eyes from Snape's own, Harry drew his brows forward into a low scowl.

"Slow, Potter, and needlessly melodramatic," Snape whispered. "There is little use in an Occlumentic shield if you dedicate so much time and effort to flourishing it defiantly in the faces of others." He tilted his head back further, and then leant forward again, his voice low and angry, the cutting tone stinging at the boy's shield.

"I understand that you have taken it upon yourself to entirely disregard the warning I gave to you recently concerning Professor Milner?"

Harry felt himself grow hot, and leant forward in turn.

"Warning?" he glared. "No I haven't-" he started again. "We've been trying to find out--"

"I did not instruct you to _investigate_ Professor Milner," Snape retorted, coldly, "Nor to waste time attempting to second-guess _me._"

"Well, I've got to know--"

"Oh indeed, interminably it seems," Snape raised a hand sharply, cutting off any interruption Harry might make. "I gather from Professor Dumbledore that you saw fit to discuss information of a very sensitive nature with him in Milner's presence, yes?" His head whipped round, lank hair trailing after it across his shoulders, and his coal-like eyes settled penetratingly upon Harry. "After what I told you, did you imagine that that was the course of wisdom, Mr Potter?"

"That's the point," Harry grated. He could feel his pulse accelerating, so strong it must be visible in his throat. He drew in a long, deep breath. "What did you tell me? Nothing- just dropped a couple of smug hints about Luna's mum being a Death Eater and then strutted off again." Harry swallowed hard, his blood roaring in his ears. _Cold. Cold. Cold. _ His face set, and he looked up at Snape. "Dumbledore didn't seem to mind," he added.

"Professor Dumbledore is neither omniscient nor omnipotent, Potter," Snape responded icily. "Nor would he have necessarily considered it wise to rebuke you personally for your lapse or silence you once you had begun to speak in Milner's presence."

Something jolted into place in Harry's mind, and he looked anew at Snape. The spy knew something- something Dumbledore did not. How many other secrets? Harry wondered, a certain fear twitching at his heart. The anger returned then, and he felt his knuckles whiten on the tabletop behind him.

"Don't."

Snape looked at him, a contemptuous sneer forming on his lips- and Harry's lips moved again, his eyes flat.

"Don't try and hide behind Dumbledore," Harry growled. "Oh, you're right- I trust him a hell of a lot more than I trust you- but there's something you're keeping from him too, isn't there?"

Snape twitched.

It was the slightest of movements- a faint jerk of a muscle, somewhere below the man's left eye. Harry's eyes blazed, and he leant forward, pressing his attack.

"He doesn't trust Milner- _I_ don't trust Milner, but he didn't have any problem with Milner hearing about Umbridge and Percy," Harry let go of the table, hands resting by his sides, fingers tightly curled into a fist on each side. "So," he went on, slowly, his pulse slowing slightly as he mastered his feelings, but still beating hard and jagged, "That makes it your problem. Maybe you ought to try telling me _why_ I shouldn't trust him, and don't- you- dare- try to pretend it's just because Dumbledore told you to tell me, because I won't have it." His voice was a deadly quiet whisper now, as low as Snape's own- yet the Potions Master once more met his stare with an equal mix of contempt and anger- although now, it seemed to Harry, his eyes locked with Snape's as though there was a different quality to that anger- a bitter, nursed hatred that competed with the habitual air of loathing.

"You know the answer to that question, I think, Potter," the response came, barely more than a breath on the air. "Whilst the Dark Lord can see into your mind so easily I cannot--"

"If I was as useless at Occlumency as you reckon I am don't you think you'd be dead by now?" Harry snapped, losing his temper in turn, and feeling his wrath only grow at the sight of that tiny glint of triumph in the corner of Snape's eye. "I kept you out, didn't I?" he added, with a savage twist of his thoughts. Snape's pallid hue whitened still further, and his eyes flashed angry at the memory- but his lip twisted as he replied.

"It appears to be one weakness of yours, Potter, to confuse the weaknesses of others with your own strength. We have seen it in your recent alleged triumphs against the Dark Lord, and it seems you see it yourself in your dealings with me. Take care," Snape hissed. "And do not expect me to be prepared to allow your over-confidence to sow the seeds of my downfall."

"I'll tell you a weakness of yours, then," Harry grated back. "You hate me. That's nothing new. I should think everyone from Voldemort-" he ignored Snape's shuddering cry of anger, "To Mundungus Fletcher's worked that out by now- and whenever you look at someone you just see what you want to see." He bared his teeth and looked away sharply, barely able to resist the temptation to snarl into Snape's face as he went on, casting the words in the Potion Master's teeth. "It's no wonder you're such a bloody disaster as a spy!"

"Curious- the Dark Lord has made more or less exactly the same observation."

Harry looked back, sharply, as Snape drew back from the confrontation, the bitterness now plainly evident on his face. The teacher raised his head, looking coldly at Harry.

"You are correct, after a fashion," he observed, in a derisive tone which entirely negated the compliment. "Although the Dark Lord can see into your mind, can plant ideas, sow dreams, share thoughts… He experiences considerable difficulty and pain in attempting to glean any useful information from you."

Harry nodded, grimly. After what he had experienced these past few years, the intelligence did not surprise him. He frowned, about to point out to Snape the flaw in his own argument- if Voldemort could not so easily penetrate Harry's memories, then why should Snape fear Harry's knowledge so much- but the Death Eater continued. "He is aware of your hatred of me, Potter- but that is all."

So you've got to make sure I keep on hating you?

Harry started at that- it was a new and uncomfortable thought which brought with it all manner of unpleasant and difficult implications.

"Do not be so foolish as to confuse 'difficult' with 'impossible'," Snape went on, coldly. "Your feelings are an open book to him, even if your thoughts are not. You cannot be seen to trust me."

"Oh don't worry about _that_," Harry's lips drew back from his teeth. "Never in--"

"Moreover there are, however, others in his service, not so hampered by the mental link between you--"

"Like you, you mean?" Harry asked, quickly.

"Yes," Snape snapped, wrenching his gaze away from Harry, and pacing across the room. "Fortunately, that self-same hatred in your mind which assures him of my antipathy to you easily explains to the Dark Lord precisely why I am unable to gain your confidence." The dark haired master paused, standing by a narrow window, his face lit by a pale light. He swung back to face Harry, eyes haunted, and a strange look- of pain remembered and dreaded- creeping across his face for a second, before the mask came down, and his features, tight-lipped and pale, glared back at the Boy Who Lived once more.

Harry did not move. He could see Snape, in his mind's eye, grovelling before his Master, begging forgiveness. He could hear the words of Voldemort, raging against the man for his failure- and yet, honest failure meant pain, where treachery would have meant death.

"The Dark Lord is very eager to know your mind, Potter," Snape told him flatly, the hate in his voice a brittle, cold and deep thing. "Very eager indeed."

"And you- think-" Harry stumbled on, anxious to get away from the horrible realisation which lapped around the edges of his mind. How many times? How many times had Snape stood before Voldemort and been rebuked, dismissed as a failure because his mutual hatred of Harry had prevented the spy from gaining access to the secrets of Harry's mind? "You think," he went on, more forcefully, "That Milner's another one of his spies?"

"Of course not!" Snape turned away angrily, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. The older man's eyes had begun to burn into his retina by then, and he screwed his own eyes up tight, trying to erase the memory of that look of the memory of agony on his adversary's face. "I told you that Florence Lovegood and I shared something in common," he moved abruptly towards the door, as if suddenly unwilling- or unable- to endure any more time alone in Harry's company. "We both left the employ of the Dark Lord… but there are more threats in this world, Potter, than Death Eaters alone. This much Professor Dumbledore has already pointed out to you, on more than one occasion, I think. I _suggest_ that you think upon his words- and guard your secrets more carefully, so that others need not waste so much of their time and effort in doing so on your behalf."

"But-" Harry started, moving after Snape, his mind turning rapidly round upon itself, now needing more information, "If she was a Death Eater-- I mean, Dumbledore stood up for you, didn't he- how come she didn't get--"

Snape halted in the doorway, and the sheer abruptness of the cessation of movement brought Harry's attempts to speak to a halt. He turned, and his sallow face seemed to peer through the boy's red face and turbulent emotions into the mind behind them.

"Guard your mind, Mr Potter," he snapped, and left the room.

* * *

"Greasy git." Ron hit the arm of his chair with his fist, and muttered dark things about obnoxious teachers of Potions. "That was a bit below the belt, even for him."

"At least he's talking to you, now, Harry," Hermione attempted. Harry snorted, and stalked across to the table in the middle of the Room of Requirements, leaning over it.

"Come on- you've got to admit it's a bit much," Ron protested. "The way he's treated Harry all the way back since first year- and then he turns round and tries to imply it's Harry's fault- that he's only treated Harry like something he scraped off the bottom of the lake just because of Voldemort?" He stared hard at Hermione. The two had quarrelled again, during the day, Harry gathered. They had been sitting several places apart at dinner, and had spoken only seldom to one another since then, until the three of them had relocated to the DA headquarters to wait for Ginny and the others to arrive.

Ron's jaw tightened. "Come off it, you're not telling me you believe him, are you?"

"I don't _dis_believe him, if that's what you mean," Hermione retorted. "He never said he liked Harry, did he?"

Ron made an incoherent choking noise, and got abruptly to his feet, walking over to the wall and picking at a loose fleck of plaster.

"All Snape said was--"

"I don't care what he said," Ron rejoined angrily. "He can just--"

Hermione turned, half-rising from her chair.

"If you're going to go through life not caring what someone says just because you happen to dislike them--"

"Since when were you on his side, anyway?"

"Will you two both shut up for a minute!" Harry shouted, one hand massaging his forehead in a pained sort of way while the other slammed hard down on to the tabletop. Behind him, the door clicked closed, and Ginny raised her eyebrows.

"Well, excuse me for being on your side," Ron said, in a brittle tone. Harry rounded on him, lips whitening, and opened his mouth to deliver a retort, then stopped, controlling himself with a visible effort.

"Sorry," he sighed, before turning to the girl in the armchair. "Sorry, 'Mione. It's just…" he growled in frustration.

"We know," Ron and Hermione chorused, accidentally.

"Milner, Malfoy, Umbridge, Snape…" Harry turned back to the table. Hermione had spread the Marauders' Map out across the top of it, and lain a shallow glass bowl over the portion of the map depicting the third floor. Into the bowl, Ron had poured a clear measure of water- water flexed with tiny, dazzling, jumping points of green and red light. The Boy Who Lived managed a weary half-smile, despite himself. "Don't you think somehow it'd be simpler if they all _were_ Death Eaters? At least then we'd know where we stood."

Ginny nodded, tucking her schoolbag away in one corner out of the way and apologising for being late as she did so.

"It's all right, Gin," Harry half-waved a tired hand, settling into an armchair between Ron and Hermione and holding out a hand for the red haired girl to join him.

"We need to stop trying to worry about everything at once," Hermione told them, after a moment. "Harry's right- there's just too many pieces on the board." She looked up at him. "There isn't really anything that you can actually _do_ about Malfoy until the enquiry, is there?"

"No, but--"

"Then forget about it. No offence, Harry," she raised a hand hastily, "But you're in no fit state to make up your mind about that at the moment. As for Umbridge- well, again, there isn't really anything we can do until we know a bit more." Hermione tucked her wand behind her ear, and clasped her hands thoughtfully. "At least Snape told you something- I think we ought to concentrate on Milner for the time being."

"Yes, but how?" Harry frowned, leaning back against the back of the chair, biting his lip. Hermione frowned.

"They worked together," Ginny said, quietly, settling in the chair next to Harry and leaning forward, elbows resting on her knees. Hermione looked questioningly at her. "At university, I mean- Florence and Milner," the younger girl commented. "Well- they must have had papers or books published, or something- so there must be some record somewhere of what they were doing."

"I've already checked the library," Hermione sighed. "Not a thing. Mind you, didn't you say the two of them worked on the Cruciatus Curse? Our library's not very good on the Unforgivable Curses- and Milner and Lovegood were working in our lifetime, which immediately puts them about three hundred years later than even the most modern book in your library at Grimmauld Place," she added, to Harry, as he looked up, about to speak.

Ginny's eyes flicked up to meet those of the elder witch as Hermione spoke, and then away again.

"I wonder…" she narrowed her eyes, speaking softly. "He kept her Thaumometer, didn't he? Florence's I mean. Maybe he's got copies of their work as well?" Ginny looked at Harry interrogatively, and the boy was forced to shrug.

"He's got plenty of books in that office of his," he admitted, "But I couldn't really pick anything out, to be honest. The one time I was in there I was watching him, not the bookcases."

"Well then, maybe it's worth having another look," Ron suggested.

"How- ask to borrow a book and have a look round while he's getting it?" Harry replied.

"I can't see that working," the other boy answered, deep in thought. "I think-" he looked apologetically at Hermione, as if expecting trouble, "I think we'll have to break in and have a look round when he's well out of the way. He's a nice enough bloke most of the time, but I kind of get the feeling if he starts to get the idea we're looking for dirt on Luna's mother he might turn a bit nasty."

Harry and Ginny both nodded their agreement at that- but Ginny's brother scarcely noticed, his eyes on Hermione. Slowly, she nodded her head. Ron's eyes widened very slightly, and he actually looked somewhat unnerved for a moment. Accustomed to Hermione being the voice of caution, Harry supposed that it was quite possible his friend found it unsettling, not to have the knowledge that Hermione disapproved of his plan to fall back on.

"I think you're right," Hermione said, softly. "Mind you, we'll have to be very careful about it- if Snape's wrong about him, Milner's one of the few allies we've got, outside of the Order-"

"He's not outside the Order any more, exactly," Harry interjected.

"Whether he is or he isn't," Hermione replied, a slight burr of impatience in her voice, "We ought to avoid offending him."

"So plan B's out, then?" Ginny directed a regretful look at Harry.

"It looks like it."

"Just be careful, for goodness sake," Hermione went on. "In the meantime-" the door opened- "We'd probably start getting ready for tonight," she went on, as smoothly as if it were the natural flow of the conversation, as Luna entered, chatting happily to Neville, while, behind her, Tonks stepped through, deep in somewhat baffled contemplation of the latest edition of the Quibbler. Harry greeted her gladly, and the young Auror- for once dressed fairly inconspicuously, fuchsia-hued hair aside, returned the greeting with a somewhat fierce hug that left Harry rather surprised and Ginny attempting to avoid looking jealous until both recollected their part in saving the twins during the battle of Diagon Alley. Evidently Tonks had not forgotten, to judge from her words and actions.

"I'm only up here for a couple of days," Tonks explained, once she'd released Harry- and given Ginny a somewhat teasing wink. "Amoeba Vendetta business. Still, I thought I could do with a break from the bottom of the lake, if it's all the same to you, Harry?"

"Glad to have you aboard," Harry grinned. "We'd probably better get used to practising in front of an Auror- before Mad Eye turns up."

Quite a few DA members had arrived by this time- and Harry felt a mischievous pleasure at the nervous silence that resulted from that particular remark- especially as Zacharias Smith, one of the more disagreeable members from last year, visibly jumped. He looked around the room, as Ginny and Ron spoke with Tonks.

"Well, I suppose we might as well start," Harry began, making his way back towards the centre, where the Marauders' Map and bowl was surrounded by a curious knot of students.

"Hang on a minute, Potter," Goyle protested, helping Blaise through the doorway. Zabini herself appeared quite strong enough to walk through the door herself, and her efforts to disabuse Goyle of the belief that his assistance was necessary hampered both of them a little.

"You sure you're well enough for this?" Ron asked her, eyeing the Slytherin girl's bandaged cranium somewhat dubiously. Goyle nodded his agreement with Ron's question grimly- and then caught Ron's slightly startled gaze. Agreeing with Gregory Goyle was not something for which Ron was entirely psychologically equipped, and he licked his lips once or twice before turning back to Blaise again, who shook her head, and winced.

"No fear," she muttered. "Not till this lot comes off." She touched the bandage a little gingerly. The three of them made their way further into the room, and Blaise laconically saluted Harry. "I'm not getting between you and Ginny Weasley in a hurry," she grinned. "I just want to watch," the dark-haired girl added, with dubious innocence.

Harry coughed.

"Quite," he heard Tonks remark, behind him, followed by the sound of Ginny's elbow prodding the Metamorphmagus in the side.

"Moving swiftly on," Harry cleared his throat, and waited for the noise to die down. Gradually, around the room, conversations died out, and the- by now rather sizeable- membership of the DA calmed down, and turned to face their captain. Harry walked around the table, and stood, the bowl and map in front of him, Hermione and Ron flanking him on either side. "A couple of days ago, Miss Weasley decided to challenge me to a contest." He met Ginny's eyes, and ever-so-slightly widened his own. "The thing is, a duel might just mean a battle between two people, mightn't it?" he looked round the room, and went on, before anybody could interrupt. "The trouble is that it usually doesn't. Other people get hurt- other people have to take sides, sometimes to help their friends, sometimes just plain to try to bring things to an end sooner rather than later, before too many people get hurt. That's what this place has been about, in a way- us getting ready to fight- not because we want to, but because we know that one day we might well find we have to… and the other reason, as I've had to explain to one or two critical people on more than one occasion, is to make sure that when we fight, we don't have to do it alone." He waited for a moment. "You've all fought each other one-on-one before now- and done very well. In real life, though, we all know it won't be like that. Teamwork is going to be as important as any curse or hex we know." He beckoned Ginny forward, facing her across the table. Looking down into the bowl, Harry could see the DA grouped around the two little dots that represented himself and Ginny Weasley at their centre. He smiled.

"I accept your challenge, Gin- and I'd like to choose the means, if I may?"

Ginny nodded- sensing what he was driving at, and Harry thanked her, raising his hands to indicate dividing the massed members of the Defence Association into two groups. Ron and Hermione each drew their wands, an incantation rising from their lips, as they plunged wand-tips into the bowl, the glittering water suddenly steaming as if each wand were a red hot poker, steeped in a bowl of Christmas punch. With a hiss, billowing clouds of white steam filled the air, but did not scald- and dancing in the steam were vivid flecks of green and red light. Harry took half a step back, as a red incandescence settled on his shoulders, the jacket of his uniform- freshly cleaned by Dobby, and now promised to smell not even remotely of ferret-droppings- glowing and turning a more vivid red hue, as, across the table, Ginny's jacket- and Ron's, next to her- acquired a deep, greenish tint.

Harry grinned wolfishly at her, his head slightly lowered, looking up from under his brows. All around them, the sparks settled on members of the Association, marking them out as red or green. He saw Justin Finch-Fletchley, spreading his arms and looking down at his uniform as if he expected it to hurt, as the thick material blushed emerald before his eyes. Glancing the other way, he noted Tonks looking down at her now red-tinted clothes with an air of satisfaction. Harry slowly rocked his head back.

"I choose the Defence Association," he said, with a spark in his eyes. "Call it lateral thinking." He paused, drawing his own wand, and lightly crossing it with hers across the still-simmering bowl. Within, the remaining lights were swirling, settling, red and green alike finding their corresponding dots on the Marauders' Map beneath, marking each player in the game. "Are you ready?"

* * *


	50. Red Queen

****

**Chapter Fifty:** Red Queen

"Two teams," Harry slid his wand slowly over Ginny's, a faint trembling sensation rippling back up his arm as the brother and sister wands' magical fields enmeshed. He'd have to remember that, later, he reminded himself. "The rules are simple enough," he admitted, "There's no need for anything fancy. We'll give you ten minutes' start."

"And what, pray tell, would Mr Potter like us to do in those ten minutes?" Ginny lifted her wand, tapping its tip sharply against his own. A white spark flared, and a jolt pushed both their arms back, as the spark dropped slowly into the bowl, for a moment disturbing the now-tranquil water and concealing the Marauders' Map beneath a haze of ripples.

"Go to the Astronomy Tower," Harry told her. "Set up defensive positions- anything you like, actually," he amended, "That's your job." He gave her an unblinking grin from over the top of his glasses, and turned away, taking one step back towards the red-jacketed group which had formed up behind him as he spoke, and turned back to face Ginny. It felt so pleasant to be… to be _doing _something again. He realised with a shock that he'd missed it- he'd actually been missing the surge of adrenaline in his blood, the tantalising, thrilling sensation of being so _alive_ that he'd felt often on the Quidditch pitch, but never so deep, never so intense as it had been during the battle in Diagon Alley. "I'll be along in ten minutes or so," he added, casually, somewhat waspishly ordering his wandering thoughts into line. "If you can stop me- stun or capture me, or keep me and my troops from capturing the Astronomy Tower from you until the clock strikes ten, then you've won."

His girlfriend considered this.

"I don't want to make Nymphadora start thinking too much of herself," she began, ignoring a spluttering Tonks, who would plainly rather not have had her forename quite so loudly proclaimed to the Association, and illustrated this point by casting an unintended engorgement charm on Susan Bones' left shoe, "But wouldn't you say that having an Auror on one team makes things a little… unfair, Mr Potter?" Ginny regarded him across the table with a slight smirk, and Harry caught the selfsame expression in her eyes.

He toyed with it, gently lifting one eyebrow.

"When did I say it was meant to be fair? Besides, you have a defensive position- you've got a tactical advantage to start with. I'm sure Ron can make the best of that?" he turned to the boy, who started, guiltily, his eyes having been fixed- somewhat confrontationally, on Hermione's, on the other side of the table. Ron looked Harry in the eyes.

"_You_, are taking _me_ on at chess?" Ron chuckled, suddenly happier than Harry had seen him for several days. "I'll see you in hell, Potter-" he stopped, suddenly, and put a hand on his sister's shoulder. "Just a moment, though."

Harry looked at him quizzically.

"What about a certain Invisibility Cloak?" Ron's eyes narrowed, as if sure he'd spotted Harry's plans before they'd properly begun.

Harry spread his arms, showing his empty pockets and lack of any other means of concealment. "It's not here," he assured Ron. "I won't be wearing it tonight, I promise you." He reached across the map to shake hands with Ginny. "Blaise- will you keep an eye on things?" he asked, as Ginny shook his hand firmly, and started to lead her green-jacketed cohort away.

Blaise nodded, pulling up a chair and seating herself by the map. As she did so, she peered into it, her face momentarily becoming alarmed, and looked sharply up at Harry. The boy met her eyes, hoping no one else had seen the look she'd given him, and gave a slow smile in response. After a moment, Blaise licked her lips.

"You really should have been in Slytherin, you rotten git," she hissed across the table at him, as Harry turned to face the departing Ginny, and said, rather loudly,

"The only other rules are to keep fighting inside the castle- and don't do anything permanent to anyone," he added, taking note of the moderately bloodthirsty expressions on the faces of a few of the fourth and fifth years. Suddenly McGonagall's advice to him on keeping control of his charges made a little more sense. "Stunners and a few mild hexes only- nothing drastic."

"Unless it's an improvement, of course," Ginny added, slightly unhelpfully, for the benefit of one fourth year girl, whose face had fallen at Harry's chiding. She turned, and bowed to Harry. "See you soon," Ginny murmured, eyes glittering, and followed her troops from the room.

Harry waited for one minute, and then glanced down at the map. All the green specks of light were steadily moving away.

"Right," he said, quickly, turning on his heel. "That's the last time anyone here except Blaise looks at that map until the game's over- unless Death Eaters attack or anything like that," he added, hastily.

"You never know, in this place," Terry Boot commented.

"If anything _does_ go wrong, Blaise, I want you to sound the alarm- you know how the Sonorus charm works, don't you?" Harry asked. Blaise concurred.

"As for Ginny's lot, we'll attack in two or three groups. If I lead the first, then Hermione and Tonks--"

"Ahem."

Hermione coughed once more into her hand.

"At the risk of pointing out the obvious, Harry, you did just declare yourself Ginny's prime target." She took his elbow and pulled him away from the table, further into the knot of red DA members. "Not that anything could have stopped that, if I know Ginny," she added, "But putting yourself in harm's way is going to be a very quick way to get this over with for the night, if you've got other plans to be getting on with."

Harry started to protest, but Hermione placed her hands on her hips, and clicked her tongue.

"You heard what Ron said. He's playing chess, Harry- and trust me, while I might not be quite as good at Ron in the wonderful world of opening my mouth and inserting my foot squarely in it, I know enough about chess to know that it's the Queen, not the King, who's the main offensive player in chess." She reached out and patted his cheek. "The King's job is just to sit there looking pretty and not get captured," Hermione added, in a sweet tone. "Besides," she went on, her face darkening with determination, "I will _not_ sit back and let that… that Ron of a boy make a fool of my team in public." Hermione sidestepped, turning to address Harry and the rest of the group. "So," the Red Queen went on, fixing Harry with a look as if daring him to interfere, "This is the way we're going to play it…"

* * *

"Tarantallegra!"

Zacharias Smith yelped in surprise, his legs kicking out wildly, and grabbing desperately at the top of the bannister.

Hermione had led a small group of Harry's band- Harry himself, Clare, Luna Lovegood, and a fourth year boy named Rheneas Morgan down and round a winding path from the Requirement Room, before heading up a seldom used back staircase. The lights were dim, here, and yet the corridors curiously clean and spotless, and Harry had gained the distinct impression that the only people to have used this passageway for some considerable time had been house-elves. They'd been doing rather well, he felt. In the distance, occasionally, he'd heard the bangs and crackles of magical discharges, and a great deal of shouting and running. It was impossible to tell for certain who was winning- but then, as Hermione had pointed out, they didn't need to. If Hermione knew her Weasleys- and she assured Harry that she did indeed know her Weasleys, both Ron and Ginny would be more comfortable with an offensive strategy than a defensive one- and, crucially, would probably expect Harry to adopt the same tactic. Thus, Hermione's plan.

"They're down here!" Zacharias yelled back along the corridor ahead, losing his grip on his wand as he struggled to keep hold of the banister rail despite his wildly kicking legs. He'd surprised them, appearing at the top of the stairs just as the little group had been about to climb up, felling Clare Jacques with a Stunning Spell before anyone had had time to react. "Harry's with them!" Smith shouted, as his eyes, despairingly following his wand's arc down the stairs, caught sight of the glint of Harry's glasses.

"QUICK!" the Hufflepuff boy managed to squeak, seconds before Hermione's Hag Gag Jinx (which Harry strongly suspected she had purchased from Messrs George and Fred Weasley, for all her denials on the subject) sealed his lips together, and a copious quantity of grey-black slime jetted forth from Harry's wand to burst over Smith's face. With a a muffled whimper, his clasped hands flew apart, and a balletic kick from his right leg sent him plummeting towards them.

"Wingudrium Leviosa!" Rheneas stammered, and was blown backwards across the floor, as Harry hurriedly repeated the spell more accurately in order to soften Smith's landing. It wasn't that he actually liked the boy overmuch, but the marble stairway was of a rather unyielding and merciless variety, and Harry felt it would be unfair to ask Dobby to scrub splattered brains out of his uniform.

"Tarantallegra?" Hermione was asking Luna, a little scathingly. "Wouldn't something a bit quicker and quieter have been mildly more appropriate?"

"It worked, 'Mione," Harry defended Luna. "Besides, it was worth it," he added, setting the mute and dazed Smith down in a crumpled heap next to Clare Jacques, now coming round and getting to her feet, under Rheneas' well-meaning ministrations.

"We can't afford to lose the element of surprise," Hermione told him sharply, flicking her wand forward and hurrying up the stairs, endeavouring to avoid losing her footing on the remnants of Harry's Bat-Bogey hex as she did so. Harry followed- behind, Luna had begun to hum to herself.

Somewhere up ahead, a flash of light passed through the corridors.

"That looks like Tonks," Harry reassured her. "Loud and clumsy."

"She is an Auror, Harry," the older girl reminded him. "I think they breed out subtlety."

"Nah, that's just her."

Tonks had been the logical choice to lead the main, diversionary attack- noisy, noticeable, and with more than enough field experience. Not only that, but she would be powerful enough to force Ron and Ginny to take her seriously, Harry reflected, with a savage grin, as he narrowly avoided falling over his own curse, and climbed back up into the third floor corridor. They hurried along, the lamps dimming as they approached. With any luck, no one else had heard Zacharias's shouts, and they'd be able to get a good deal closer to the Astronomy Tower, and Ginny, before the Weasleys noticed what they were about.

They were hurrying along the strangely familiar narrow corridor now, passing old wooden doors to musty and long-derelict classrooms, ignoring creaking floorboards and the occasional treacherous shouts of ghosts uncertain of just what was going on in their castle, but determined to interfere somehow, putting their trust in Tonks and her troops to make enough noise and mayhem to hide their approach. Judging from the noise- and the occasional flash of magic- the bulk of Harry's forces seemed to be somewhere ahead, and to the right- perhaps in one of the long galleries overlooking the outside of the Great Hall, Harry speculated. His and Hermione's group would need to keep well to the left of them until they were safely ahead, and had would have outflanked the bulk of Ginny's force.

A shadow moved up ahead, against the light of a torch, burning around the next corner, and the three elder students reacted instantly, a barrage of Stunners flashing into the glare.

"NOW!" he heard someone shout, and doors banged back behind and in front of them. Harry ducked, rolling towards a door to his right, conscious of Hermione following him. The lights flared, popping and crackling as hexes and jinxes filled the air. He turned, felling one witch- he couldn't see who it was- with a Full Body Bind, just as a tall figure at the far end of the corridor sent Luna spinning unconscious into a wall. Light seemed to etch the corridor into is eyes, carved in jagged flashes of red, blue, white and green, as Hermione wrenched him back behind the cover of the door. Harry shook her off, swinging his wand in an arc, and sending the same beam of pure blackness that Dumbledore had once cast at him ricocheting down the corridor.

The _Attenuata Nox_ clung to his attackers, binding them together in inky obscurity, as he turned, the blood hammering through his forehead, and met Hermione's suddenly delighted look.

"You realise where we are, Harry?" the girl asked, grinning. A soundless concussion of light lifted the blackness, and Harry made out Justin Finch-Fletchley and four or five others recovering themselves, before he flung himself back behind the door again. Behind the opposite classroom door he caught sight of Clare, a large bruise blossoming on her forehead, tensing herself in readiness. Harry looked back at Hermione- and suddenly laughed.

"Third floor corridor on the south side, just beyond the Charms classroom?" his eyes widened. Even as he spoke, the door behind him was wrenched free from the wall, knocking Hermione out into the corridor, narrowly missed by a Stunning spell. She rolled, coming up on one knee, her left hand cupping her right wrist as her wand snapped up into position.

"Illudere pyrocanem tricephalus!" The spell knocked her back on to her haunches, a raging, twisted shape of fire crackling from her wand-tip, the magical signature deflecting and disrupting the barrage of spells which struck against it. Taking shape, it stood foursquare in the corridor where he'd first seen it, all those years ago, rose up, and shook its head. And shook its head. And shook its head. Bellowing from three throats, the great flaming illusion roared. Flickering fiendfyre danced from six eyes, blue tongues of flame lolling from three great mouths filled with teeth that Harry remembered had seemed every bit as big as an eleven-year old's leg.

"Brilliant!" he exulted, as the incendiary image of Fluffy- the three headed dog once chosen to guard the Philosopher's Stone- pawed the floorboards, and seemed to shake the very corridor as it thundered towards Justin and his green-clad supporters. Harry and Clare stepped out from either side, sending withering bursts of Stunning spells and hexes at Justin's group, around and above the great shoulders and shaggy heads of the dog, which charged into their foes' midst, scattering terrified students like ninepins. The flame and the teeth were insubstantial, ghostly illusion, but the blast of warmth from its mouths and the savage glint in its eye seemed very real. Harry whirled, spinning out of the way of an Impediment Jinx, and sighted Finch-Fletchley standing defiant in 'Fluffy''s path. The Boy Who Lived drew back his wand- but the Hufflepuff Seeker was swifter, and, his eyes flashing at Harry, Justin brought his own wand down.

"Serpensortia ab surdus!" Something vast and black and scaly seemed to ripple from the tip of Justin's wand, lashing through the air and plunging through the ghostly dog's forehead. 'Fluffy' vanished with a sound like a drip of water falling into a bucket, and the snake recoiled from the floor, rising up, hissing angrily, its hood spreading out.

_"Go back," _Harry ordered it, sharply, relying on Hermione and Clare to cover him. The snake hissed, lunging forward again.

"What's the matter, Harry?" he heard Justin call, a goading, rather gleeful tone in his voice. He followed it up with another curse- but Hermione's shield managed to protect Harry as well, and the boy staggered back a pace, keeping his eyes locked on the cobra's own, sinisterly glinting slits.

_"Go back in the name of Godric Gryffindor and the Order of the Phoenix," _Harry hissed in Parseltongue, angry now, taking a step forward and brandishing his wand. _"I command you!"_ The snake reared, taking no more notice of him than if he were speaking complete nonsense.

"Harry, look out!" he heard Hermione shout, and flung himself backward as a curse struck the wall inches from him. The snake's head flashed forward, reacting to the movement, its teeth gleaming.

"Expelliarmus!" he saw the flash of light in the air, and Clare's wand arced out of her hand. The young Chaser kicked out, her foot connecting with the underside of the serpent's jaw- and the cobra swung up, turning on her.

"Harry, it's deaf!" Hermione suddenly realised, frantically parrying Justin Finch Fletchley's assault as the tall boy came forward. "Serpensortia _ab surdus_," she repeated, "It can't hear Parseltongue- it can't hear anything!"

"PETRIFICUS TOTALIS!" It was as if the words had unlocked his mind. Harry had been half frozen, stumbling, so certain of his power as a Parselmouth that its failure to act had almost paralysed him. Now, the veil rent, and his wand arm lashed up, striking the snake upon the nose, freezing it in motion even as its jaws reached for Clare's up flung arm, defending her face. He rounded on Justin, just as the latter managed to corner Hermione.

"Have you got any idea how bloody dangerous that could have been?" he growled, punctuating his words with an onslaught of magic.

"I- " Justin broke off, forced to conjure a shield charm. Harry prowled forward, keeping the other boy on the defensive, his hair blowing back in the magical discharge from the duelling wands, face bathed in the violet light of Justin's shield.

"I told you to be _careful_!" Harry shouted, swinging his wand across the floor. The wreckage of the door he and Hermione had been hiding behind, earlier in the fight, rose up, as if caught in the wind, and smashed into Justin's back, sending him stumbling across the corridor, his wand flying from his grip.

"It wasn't venomous!" the Hufflepuff managed to shout, flinging his arm out defensively as he fell to his knees. "What kind of idiot do you think I am?"

"Just looked dangerous, did it?" Harry asked, breathing hard, and biting down sharply on the anger that had risen in his throat. He panted, still covering Finch-Fletchley with his wand, his teeth chattering together as his body shook. He nodded, twice.

"Yes!" Justin scrambled backwards. He could see into Harry's eyes, and what he saw frightened him. "Come off it, Harry, why am I going to--"

"All right." Harry's face broke into a slow smile. He nodded. "OK." The rush of blood changed direction, the boiling surge dissipating away from around his mind, and he felt a sudden flash of euphoria mingled with a deep irritation directed towards the boy on the floor in front of him. Harry chuckled. "No hard feelings, Justin." He beamed broadly- and the relieved smile which had been starting to form on the other Seeker's face dropped from it as if pulled by a weight.

_I always thought everyone said I had a _nice_ smile_, Harry felt vaguely hurt.

"That snake only _looked _dangerous," Harry repeated, in a friendly fashion. "And this is only going to make you _look_ like an idiot."

"Harry, what are you going to do?" Hermione's voice sounded two parts concerned to three parts exasperated. Harry rather felt that he'd only narrowly missed the word 'now' being appended to that sentence, in tones of deep irritation.

He did it. One curse, and a few hissed instructions later, Harry tucked his wand back into his sleeve, and doing his level best not to meet the eyes of either Hermione, or Clare Jacques, who was looking at him with the sort of expression that would probably get a few Bludgers knocked his way by Jack Sloper in the next Quidditch match, if he ever heard about it, he continued on his way. "Come along, Hermione," he called, stepping over Justin. "Sorry I can't stop, Justin," he added, to his former opponent, helplessly trussed in gently writhing silver tinsel, and with a small Christmas pudding wedged firmly in his mouth. "Places to go, people to hex, that kind of thing. You know how it is. Any complaints, blame Ginny."

"Ron says that's standard procedure," Clare remarked, helping a still dazed Luna to her feet.

"He's not quite as dim as he looks."

* * *

Harry was doing his level best to avoid looking Luna Lovegood in the eye. He liked Luna- but she had managed to be hit in the face by two Conjunctivitis Curses before an Impediment Jinx had sent her headlong into a wall where she'd slumped until a Stunning spell had knocked her off her feet. Clare had managed to revive her from the latter, but- if 'dazed and confused' was an expression which could be applied to Professor Milner's adoptive niece at the best of times, at present she was more than usually so, her head bobbing uncertainly round on her neck as her inner ear attempted to catch up with her brain, and her eyes pointing in wildly different directions. She also had her wand tucked behind her ear. Harry had considered telling her about Mad-Eye Moody's catechism on the safe stowage of wands, but decided not to attempt it. His polite efforts not to laugh might well be tested too far if Luna began to tell him about another exploding wand conspiracy.

He sat on the desk in the old classroom, and waited, instead, listening to the distant crashes and roars of battle. Hermione had taken Clare on ahead, to scout around and try to find Rheneas Morgan, while, when it became clear Luna was in no condition to carry on fighting this evening, Harry had helped her into the classroom to await Hermione's return. He rather resented being told to stay in the background and keep himself safe- but, on the other hand, he supposed, he had been the one to invent the rules, after all.

A faint fizzing sound caught his attention, and he looked up sharply. Luna had drawn her wand again, and levelled it at her own face, moving the tip slowly back and forward in front of her eyes- first one, and then the other. As Harry watched, somewhat intrigued and in no small way alarmed, the wand seemed to ensnare one eye, and, as Luna moved the wand back towards the middle of her face, the eyeball slowly turned, moving back to a central alignment. For a moment, it looked as if it was going to work- and then, with a sickening jerk that made the boy think for a moment that Luna's eye was about to revolve right the way round, it spun upwards to stare at the ceiling.

"Don't do that, for goodness sake," he interjected, hastily, before the Ravenclaw girl could continue her experimentation. "Let Madam Pomfrey sort it out- it'll take her two minutes, if you don't fiddle with it first."

"I'll ask Uncle Aloysius to do it later," Luna replied, with a bright little smile. "I don't like Madam Pomfrey," she added, her face darkening.

"Why on Earth not?" Harry asked, fairly sure that he'd seen Luna ministered to by the healer on a number of occasions.

"She uses Skele-gro," Luna explained in a calm voice. "Didn't you know they made it from ground-up criminals from Azkaban?"

Harry closed his eyes. Granted, the odds of Luna actually telling him something based on verifiable fact, rather than something her father had learned from dozens of credible witnesses- most of them insane or sheep, or something her uncle had made up as an obscure joke were low, but, none the less, he found himself trying to mentally distance himself from his right arm for a moment or two. He sighed. "I just thought she might know a bit more about healing people than a Dark Arts teacher."

"You don't trust my uncle, do you?" Luna asked, quickly. Harry bit his lip, and he waited for a moment, rather hoping that Hermione might choose that moment to come back and ask them to join her and Clare- or that Ginny would burst in to attack, or perhaps a small delegation of Blast-Ended Skrewts… He hung his head. There was still fighting in the distance, but it seemed to be growing no closer or further away. He felt a rather strong temptation to plead a desire to find out what was going on, and go to the doorway, but stopped himself before he spoke. He had no intention of telling Luna exactly why he didn't trust Milner, what Snape had said, but at the same time, Ron was right- she deserved more than for him to just avoid the question. He drew in his breath and looked at her.

"I'd like to trust him," Harry answered, unhappily. Luna nodded, sending one eye bobbing up and down in a manner that made him slightly nauseous. Hurriedly, he shifted his gaze to the other, which was merely pointing off in the direction of the window. "It's just…" against his earlier thoughts, he did pace across to the door now, but carried on speaking as he did so, merely wanting to escape the uncomfortable sensation of being pinned like a specimen beneath Luna Lovegood's currently scattergun gaze. "He complicates things," Harry admitted, turning quickly back to face Luna, having found a line of argument he could safely pursue, and an opinion he wished to express, mindful of the black stone glinting just above the top button of the girl's shirt. "I mean- there's Voldemort, and the Ministry, and the Daily Prophet, and everyone in this school- all pulling in different directions, and… I don't know…" he squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, and then looked up at her. "I just don't need someone else playing around, pulling everything off towards his own agenda as well, that's all. Things are too complicated as it is."

"We understand," Luna assured him beatifically. "You're right, I suppose," she went on serenely, as if it was a new idea which had just occurred to her. "There's so much that goes wrong because of all the things people don't understand about each other- because everyone keeps having to be different, so we don't understand them, so we don't know what we're going to do."

"I don't mean--"

"It would be easier if things were simple. If only everyone who was good was in the Order of the Phoenix and then we could just say everyone else was a Death Eater and send them all to Azkaban." The more stable of her two eyes settled on him, startlingly direct behind her pleasantly vague smile. "Do you think you and Ginny are powerful enough to do that? I do," she went on, brightly, as Harry turned away, putting his hands up to the side of his head. He wasn't sure- wasn't sure if Luna was teasing him or genuinely angry with him or simply babbling- but it had stung him, none the less.

"Curious- the Dark Lord has made more or less exactly the same observation."

Harry grit his teeth, Snape's sardonic observation burning in his head. Somewhere he could still hear Luna talking, somewhere remote and distant.

"I'm _not_ Voldemort," he growled, forcing his mind to think back to the discovery Hermione had made. Ten years. Ten years, Voldemort had had to try and take Harry over- ten years in which he'd failed. The Boy Who Lived pressed his hand defiantly to his scar- and felt it cold. Cold as ice. He turned, fear blossoming in his mind, reaching for his wand…

How much longer must I wait?

The anger coursed through his body at the question, and he buckled, sinking to his knees.

"N-not long, my lord," he heard a voice stammer, unctuous and frightened, a squeaking, piping little voice.

_I turn away from Wormtail and set my face into the flames. Soon, soon it must be, I whisper to my servant. Soon._

The boy shall die.

"I've… I've heard that before…" Harry was on his hands and knees, fingers digging into the grimy floorboards. He swore, blinking hard. Patronus. He visualised it in his mind- the great silver stag. Harry stumbled forwards, reaching out and grasping at the old iron fireplace in the corner to lift himself to his feet- and then it came again, the pain like a blinding flash.

_I cannot bear it…_

Agony- but not his agony- a high, cold voice crying out, an old and ancient wand slashing through the air. He saw, a red haze, saw faces that he knew- cruel faces, Death Eaters- his allies, writhing on the floor as Lord Voldemort gave vent to the pain in Harry's scar.

Neither can live while….

"N….. n… no…." Harry growled, hauling himself upright, throwing image after image at the scar, driving off that treacherous thought. Sirius Black, riding off into the distance on Buckbeak. Draco Malfoy, the Amazing Bouncing Ferret. The talk of Skele-gro threw up another image and, savagely, pouring into the image all the glee he could muster, Harry cast the sight of Voldemort himself, reeling backwards, one arm boneless, crippled, enfeebled, as Harry struck at him with twin wands.

A snarling sob, pale, spidery hands grasping blindly before him.

A flash of copper, Ginny flying past him above the clouds and beneath the sun. Her face, regarding him quizzically in Helena's Nest- her face, broken and hollow, that terrible day- for a second, he thought that Voldemort had thrown that image back at him, but then he followed his own reasoning and clenched his will, pouring Ginny's grief into the scar…

_She came back, Tom. She came back out of the dark. Are you strong enough to do that, Tom?_

"Well, are you?" His feet were under him, his left hand pressed flat against his forehead, while his right clung to the metal grate, pulling him upright- and he could feel the attack fading, fading for both of them. _"Aren't you going to answer me, Riddle?" _Harry heard himself hissing, the Parseltongue that had been on his lips earlier coming unbidden to them now, and he drew breath. He could not be sure whether or not Voldemort had heard that last, parting shot, knew neither of them had initiated that particular confrontation… but still…. Harry lowered his hand from his face, and turned, a wild look in his eye. It was the battle that had drawn it- the roaring song of war that he had last heard when he faced Voldemort had drawn them together- and then Luna's words- _He had opened the door… and he had closed it._

Harry Potter stood motionless, as an explosion shook the castle, and he looked at the wand in his hand.

Shouts rang in the distance, and he could hear feet running, getting closer. Luna levelled her wand at where she assumed the door to be, and Harry, several feet away from the door, ducked out of Luna's actual line of fire. It all seemed… hollow, remote. It was as if Umbridge- the Ministry, all of them… were just distractions, games, duels and war games to play. His wand flicked out without him realising it, its aim snaking towards the door. Voldemort. Always Voldemort.

"You were right, 'Mione," he told her, unsurprised, as she crashed into the room, a jagged spiral of burgundy-coloured light scorching the plaster from the wall behind her as she ran. Hermione looked at him, then stared into his eyes in alarm. He shook his head, as Seamus pelted down the corridor, half leading, half dragging Dean Thomas, who seemed to be hopping along, a large, flesh-coloured bag obscuring his face. Hermione called out to Seamus, who took cover behind a door on the other side, leaning round it and trying to avoid being hexed himself as he returned fire across the corridor. They were pinned, trapped in the classroom.

"Right? What- Seamus, what happened?" Hermione called across the corridor to the Gryffindor boy, as Harry stood, bemused and senseless. Seamus risked a glance around the door, then flung himself back against the wall as a violet snowstorm flashed past.

"'Oi!" He bellowed. "I'll get you for that!" His unseen attacker- or attackers, Harry realised, suddenly, laughed. He turned his head very slowly to Hermione's own. The sounds of combat still raged nearby- but they were closer, he realised, and overhead- and now it was not a case of blow and counter-blow, but running feet and the crackle of magic, all moving in one direction- and the direction was _away_ from the Astronomy Tower.

"I take it it's gone a bit wrong?" he asked, trying to talk evenly. Hermione looked round at him.

"You are awake, then?" she asked, in a tone of some acerbity.

"Seamus!" Harry put a hand to his lips and bellowed. "What's going on?"

"Tonks!" The Irish wizard complained, gathering himself and flinging the hopelessly entangled Dean Thomas across the corridor, followed by himself. A curse struck his shoe, and its laces lashed out, tying him to the doorknob. Harry sliced through the laces with a word, and slammed the door shut, casting a locking spell on it as he did so.

"Back!" he shouted, dragging Dean back with him, away from the door, wand ready to repel intruders. "Everyone ready? Who've they got with them?"

"Feels like half the flipping Ravenclaw Quidditch team," Dean cursed, in a muffled voice. "Will you let go, whoever you are?" Harry stared at him. The boy's legs seemed to be sealed together, one foot kicking madly on its ankle, the other attempting to balance, and what Harry had at first taken for some sort of bag was actually Dean's ears- grown to enormous size and stretched forward, wrapping around his eyes and mouth. His nose poked out between them, sniffling and fighting inflamed sinuses. "Of all the low-down rotten tricks to pull…" Dean's voice sounded furious, "Ginny Weasley can be a dirty sneak sometimes… who is that, anyway?"

"Harry Potter," Harry Potter said, levelly.

"Ah." Dean appeared to feel that he had said enough on the subject of Ginny Weasley's perfidy, and fell silent.

"Tonks turned on us!" Seamus bristled, his face rather red. "We were doing all right, Hermione, we really were- just two corridors away from the tower, in that long gallery. She was leading us, then she just suddenly turned round and started hexing everyone in sight. I think she turned Lavender into a frog, then--"

"Harry?" Hermione looked at him, suddenly really alarmed, "Why would Tonks--?"

"I think she was on Ginny's side all the time. She used a colour change spell on her jacket," Luna remarked, still trying to correct her eyes. "I did think at the time that a green spark hit her- but then when I looked next she was red."

Harry's eyes widened. He remembered… no, he realised, he remembered seeing Tonks looking down at her red jacket, and looking pleased with herself… and she had been talking to Ron and Ginny, a few moments before.

"Why didn't you say something at the time?" Hermione fumed.

"Oh, I didn't think anyone would believe me," Luna replied. "Besides, I thought maybe she just decided she'd rather be on our side."

"Of all the dimwitted illogical-- and will you stop doing that with your eyes!" Hermione flared at the other girl. Harry started to speak- and then froze. Finally, there was movement at the door. Someone knocked.

Seamus stared. "That lot stunned about six of us on our way back down here… and they knock?"

"They haven't got Tonks with them any more," Dean hissed. "She went back up--"

The knock came again.

"Do you surrender?" Harry thought he recognised Cho's voice.

"No I don't!" he shouted, crossly. Hermione had turned away from Luna now, frowning fiercely and counting under her breath. There was a whispered consultation behind the door.

"Well, we've captured him…"

"That's not enough, we've got to…"

"That's Harry in there…"

"… think I'm going to try fighting _him_?" That was one of the Ravenclaw chasers, Harry forgot her name, but he remembered her being rather scared of him during their last match together. He grit his teeth.

"Harry, it doesn't matter," Hermione said, suddenly, as if making her mind up about something. She flicked a hand nervously through her bushy hair and walked into the middle of the room. "Tonks' attack was only ever meant to be a diversionary thrust. If we can get to the tower…" her face fell. "Mind you, that does mean we're probably going to have to fight Ginny _and_ Tonks, but we've still got a chance."

"Except we can't _get_ to the tower," Harry reminded her. Defeat didn't especially annoy him- at least, if he reminded himself of that frequently enough then he could ignore the champing, growling feeling in his stomach- but the notion of being pinned in a classroom by a group of his own students too frightened by their own hero worship to actually get around to making a fight of it… did annoy him. Hermione gave him a quick, shy grin, and walked over to a stores cupboard.

"Not quite to plan," she muttered, opening it and rummaging around, pulling down a pile of old textbooks that looked as though they hadn't been disturbed in years- with surprisingly little dust- "But this is the last classroom before the final staircase, so it seemed the best place to…" she grunted, trying to tug something out of a door somewhat too small for it, "Luna, give me a hand?" Luna hurried across, taking hold of the end and helping Hermione to pull it out into the light. She handed it to Harry, her eyes wandering cheerfully around her face, while Hermione withdrew another, and another, handing one to Seamus, one more on to Luna- before- with a rather nervous expression, withdrawing a final one for herself. "Seemed the place we'd be most likely to get caught and need to use these if anything went wrong," Hermione finished, flourishing her one of the four broomsticks she'd handed out.

"You've got to be kidding!" Seamus glanced at the door.

"Quiet!" Hermione and Luna both snapped, gimlet eyed, and Seamus jumped.

"You, on a broom?" He stared at her, more quietly, adding, "_You_?"

"It's only two floors up to the Astronomy Tower," Hermione retorted. "I've seen you lot flying on them more than enough- and I'm not a total incompetent, thank you-"

"What about that lot?" Harry gestured towards the door. A muffled conversation was going on outside it. He got the distinct impression that Cho Chang was attempting to use her authority as team captain to order her fellow players to force the door.

"Dean, you can make enough noise for five people," Hermione told the hexed Gryffindor. "Stay here."

"Oh, thanks," Dean muttered- but drew his wand all the same.

"What about Luna?" Harry indicated the Ravenclaw witch's wander-eyed face. "She's not going to be that good on a broom, is she?"

Hermione started to speak, then looked at Luna's eyes. She sighed. "And then there were three." She turned. "Three, Harry, against Ginny and Tonks," she hissed. "And whoever else they've got up there!"

"We've got surprise on our side, though," Harry rejoined, pushing open the window. Then he frowned. "Although I did say that the battle had to take place _inside_ the school buildings."

"Well, we're not going to _fight_ out there, are we?" Hermione looked back at him, innocently. "Besides, when I hid the brooms I didn't know that, did I? I just knew that you'd booked this bit of the school. The Astronomy Tower seemed the logical focal point."

"You worked it all out from just that?"

"I'm quite clever. Some people have noticed."

The door shook, a golden flash of light permeating round the frame.

"Point taken," Harry accepted hastily, flinging his leg over the broomstick and leaning out of the window. "Let's move."

* * *

-Hatethishatethishatethishatethis-

She was screaming. At least, she would have been screaming, if her throat had been willing to open enough to allow it. Inside, it had all seemed so easy.

-Hatethishatethishatethishatethis-

Climb up on to a broom, fly up two stories and across three, and then just hug the outside of the Astronomy Tower and float up. Easy. Didn't Ron and the others fly all the time? She'd flown on Buckbeak- she'd flown a Thestral. She'd flown a broom before- admittedly, so badly as to almost make Dennis Creevey look skilled in comparison, but she was quite capable of getting it off the ground.

Then Harry had pushed himself out of the window, and immediately the wind had driven him off to one side, almost- it seemed- before he'd got his legs settled under him. At that point, she'd been sorely tempted to suggest that she stay behind with Dean, and Luna fly in her place. It hadn't exactly been concern for Luna that had made her stick with her original plan- nor had it been Seamus, grinning at her knowingly as he waited for her to mount her broom. It had been more the knowledge that they'd probably find Ron at the top of the tower- and Hermione found herself rather suddenly aware that the idea of rising up behind an unsuspecting Ron and turning the tables on him when he least expected it was worth the fear of flying.

-Hatethishatethishatethisreallyhatethis!-

A sudden lull in the wind sent Harry and Seamus lurching apart, and Hermione was alone, pale hands clinging desperately to the broom handle, leaning forward on it and wrapping her legs around it with a sudden squeak that she desperately hoped neither of the two boys had heard. She could feel herself slipping round- was horribly aware of the dull white framework of one of the greenhouses several hundred miles below her- or so it felt-

"Hang on!" Harry was there, flying up and grabbing her by the shoulders, pulling her back so that her centre of gravity was above the beam. She whimpered, not daring to let go of her broom to catch hold of him, but turned her head to look up, teeth gritted.

The sky was dark and stormy, the clouds bilowing navy black, edged with crinkled layers of silver grey moonlight, which leant a greying, gunmetal hue to the sky behind the ever shifting masses of boiling cloud. The wind whipped back, pressing into her side like some massive, swiping fist, and the grey enormity of the castle wall bobbed and wavered- no, _she _bobbed and wavered, supported on nothing but her own magic- she could feel-- Harry's hair was streaming out from his face, his skin seeming as silver as the clouds in the night, eyes glinting, barely visible behind glasses which reflected the moon. White teeth.

_He's enjoying it,_ she realised, with anger. _He actually likes this!_

"Brilliant, Hermione," Harry's lips parted again, sitting back on his broom, holding on with one hand and looking up- _further up, how could he?_ into the night. "Fantastic!" He grabbed her shoulders with one hand, as Seamus got control of his broom- she'd only been able to purloin a quartet of Shooting Stars from Madam Hooch's storeroom, not having known before the evening began which students would be accompanying her on this last twist of the plan. Slowly, Harry began to ascend, his death-grip on her dragging her up with him. She twisted her head, trying to look away, looking out across the rolling hills of the Scottish countryside, charcoal on black- but that drew her eyes closer, further down, across the jet black triangle of the Forbidden Forest- except that there were lights in there, she realised suddenly, when seen from above- perhaps the campfires of centaurs, dim lights, lights that would not outshine the stars overhead-

"Just over these roofs here…" He was pulling her forward now, and Hogwarts was slipping by underneath. They passed a gable end, a gargoyle looming up close, and she leant away from it instinctively, pushing her broom off to the right.

"Steady," Harry told her quickly. "If you tip, you bank, and turn. It's like an aeroplane." She nodded, curtly- aware of the theory well enough, but really not wanting to think about the idea of deliberately leaning out over the ground so far below… and then a dark finger came into view, stabbing up against the sky- and they were accelerating, looming towards it. The Astronomy Tower.

"Let's get in its shadow before anyone up there looks down," Harry hissed- and, despite herself, Hermione followed his gaze upwards. For only a second could she stand it, before she had to look down again- and then shut her eyes tight, until she could be sure she was focusing on the broom handle and her white knuckles, not the castle roof below- but she saw the top of the Astronomy tower, where Harry had sat a rather disastrous exam really not all that long ago, for all that it felt like years, and two shapes upon it.

"Slow down!" he heard Seamus' sharp intake of breath, as Harry flung Hermione and himself to the left, and suddenly the great tower was on her right, and they were spinning- and Harry put out a hand to touch the stonework, fingers dancing over it, not trying to stop dead, but braking gently, a little at a time, as they spiralled up the tower.

"You're not on a Firebolt now," the Irish boy whispered to Harry, nervously.

"Teach your grandmother," Harry retorted, biting his lip, "Now _shut up!_"

"Well, I sent them down that corridor after Hermione… and they didn't come back." Tonks was trying not to laugh, as Ginny stamped her foot.

"I sincerely doubt Harry turned them all into frogs," she told Tonks, folding her arms, then unfolding them quickly. "What in Merlin's name does that mean, anyway? Why would you want to turn anyone into a frog?"

"It's a Muggle joke," the Metamorphmagus explained, her hair as black as the night. "Anyway, don't worry about it. Harry might not even have been in that group. More likely he and Hermione split up and went different ways. Harry'll come at us from some other direction when we're not expecting him." She stalked across the tower to stand by the door to the stairwell, set into a little side turret at one corner of the flagstone-covered space.

Ginny rolled her eyes, walking over to the edge of the battlements, hugging herself against the cold.

"Didn't that sentence start out trying to be reassuring?" she asked Tonks, the corner of her mouth hinting at a smile which belied the tart tone of her words.

"Sorry," Nymphadora Tonks stuck out her tongue at the back of Ginny's head. "I'm starting to forget what side I'm actually meant to be on," she added, watching Ginny's back thoughtfully, and tapping her wand. "It'd probably reassure Harry."

"Oh, it did." Harry was moderately proud of his entrance. This proved to be a mistake.

Tonks and Ginny both turned in a flash, both delivering curses which turned the air blue- metaphorically in Ginny's case, literally in Tonks' . Harry rolled forward off his broom, landing in a half-crouch on the battlement itself.

"Mind the edge!" Ginny hissed, despite herself, and held fire for a moment.

"I'd never have thought of that," Harry responded, with a deliberately bland smile, as he pitched forward. If he'd been expecting more than a moment's grace, he would have paid for his optimism- the instant he was far enough forward that an attack would knock him back _against _the battlements, rather than _over_ them, a reductor curse slammed him back painfully into the stonework- and Ginny and Tonks were both striding forward, wands raised ready to strike again, just as Seamus rose up behind them, and Hermione scrambled on to the battlements, her broom tumbling away from beneath her as soon as she released it. Seamus raised his wand, the Stunner on his lips- and Ginny spun:

"Accio Finnegan!" mindful of the sheer drop, rather than stunning the boy, she summoned him, plucking Seamus from his broom and hauling him through the air towards her. "Revolutus!"

"Protegius Profligato!" Harry cast the spell from the floor, knocking Tonks staggering with an expanding shield even as he scrambled up. Seamus, spinning through the air, slammed awkwardly into the stairwell turret, and slid down on to the flagstone floor in a largely boneless heap.

Hermione cast a stunning spell from a shaking hand, and Ginny's shield flared vivid purple against the indigo storm, as Tonks slapped the flat of her hand down hard on the flagstones, striking her own hand with her wand-tip the instant it touched the floor. The stones seemed to ripple, rising up and flowing in a great wave across the top of the Astronomy Tower, flowing round Ginny, leaving a clear space around the lee side of the turret, and knocking Harry's legs from under him as the waves of stone rebounded against the ramparts and shook back and forth. Harry's own shield flashed violet, as Tonks cursed again- he didn't see what it was, through the haze of his protective charm, and something like lightning seemed to be searing the air between Ginny and Hermione.

Lightning…

"Repellos!" He cast, blasting himself straight up in the air, Tonks' Stunning spell flashing harmlessly beneath him, and swung his wand beneath him, scorching fiery rain down on their shields below as his momentum was overcome by gravity, and he dropped back down, landing lightly on his feet in front of Hermione, even as Ginny managed to disarm the Red Queen, sending her wand skittering across the stones.

"I might have known you'd try flying," Ginny grinned, a whip-like tongue of sparkling rope snaking across the tower from her wand as she attacked with the Narcosis Snare charm.

"Not my idea, actually," Harry replied, his counterstrike twisting the snare into a knotted mass which swiftly subdued itself. Ginny dropped into a cat-like crouch, her wand held low. "Still, fair exchange is no robbery- I flew in, you had Tonks trick--" he flung himself sideways just in time, as a hex flashed through the air. "No, I hadn't forgotten you were there!" he yelled at Tonks, his face blushing beetroot in the darkness, bringing up his shield as both witches cursed him. The impact forced him to his knees, and his shield seemed to turn black and flecked with green, the pressure suddenly building in his temples.

I'm duelling an Auror and a girl who thinks the best way to test dangerous new spells is to throw them at people and see what they do. I suppose Dudley's at home watching TV.

"Sensoria Inversa!"

_That_ spell would have put him out of the fight for good, Harry realised, as he let his shield go and sprang forward beneath two blistering curses, swinging his wand to try to attack Ginny and Tonks at once with Ginny's own Inflammtordue incantation. He took advantage of the confusion to leap through the resulting wall of fire, trusting to the DA uniform's fireproofing and his comparatively short hair, and lash another couple of hexes at them from behind.

This was more like it. The Boy Who Lived could feel the fire building in him again- and this time it was right. He followed heat with a brittle blast of cold-

"Cryos!"even as he turned, and struck at Tonks again as Ginny warded off the cold with a warming charm such as she'd used in Helena's Nest.

"Lateral thinking, anyway, isn't it, Harry?" he heard his girlfriend say, raising his shield more by instinct than by intent, as she re-entered the fight. "Old Ma Nymphadora was my Severus Snape."

"I'll be your Norwegian Ridgeback if you don't watch out--!" Tonks protest was cut off as Harry elevated her foot with a jab of his wand, and she flung out her arm in a hurry, to drag herself back to the ground.

"Besides," Ginny continued, "Since when was the game meant to be fair?"

"Fair comment," Harry darted forward, eyes glittering. He'd caught sight of something Ginny had not, as Tonks disentangled herself from the hex; he'd seen Hermione, getting to her knees, a wand in her hand.

"Stupefy!" she lashed out at Tonks from behind.

"Protego!" Hermione's Stunner flashed off Tonks' shield, and the young Auror turned, ready to curse again-

"Stupeficus Narcolepsus!" Harry and Ginny's wands burned the air together- and Hermione fell back even as Tonks fell forward. The two unconscious bodies hit the ground in the same moment.

The remaining witch and wizard looked at each other. Harry was panting, and he could see the gleam of perspiration on Ginny's cheeks, glinting silver in the moonlight.

"They might get cross that we stuck our wands in," Harry suggested.

Ginny shook her head.

"Tonks needs her sleep at her age."

Harry considered that, scratching his nose. "Having fun?" he asked, noticing the slender red line of a cut along her right cheek.

"A couple of your lot tried to squash me under a pile of portraits," Ginny explained, wiping away the blood with one forefinger.

"Ah." Harry considered. "Justin serpensortied me." He shifted his stance, drinking in the cold air.

"What a cheek. Is that a word?" Ginny tilted her head to one side, reflectively.

"What, 'cheek'?"

"No, 'serpensortied'," Ginny corrected him, with a grimace, "_This_ is cheek!" she lunged, diving past Harry and slashing her wand against his posterior as she did so, stinging sparks biting at him as she did so. Harry spun, his wand lancing down to strike against hers. For a moment, they stood motionless, like fencers, swords locked together, crossed in battle. Harry could feel the twin phoenix cores surging, sensing each other, the magical flux about each wand vibrating down his hand into the wrist. His green eyes peered into Ginny's brown ones, and he began to circle to the right.

Matching his motion, she did the same, moving her wand's edge very slowly along his, stroking from the tip to his knuckle and back again, her lips slightly parted as the entangled magical fields grated their almost painful protests.

His eyes had drifted down to the wands, and now he looked back up, meeting Ginny's look with a faintly surprised question of his own. He licked his lips.

Ginny smiled, and spoke- and he knew the word she was about to say before it left her mouth.

"Stakes?"

The wind blew chill across his back, and Harry very slowly, but with steady determination, pushed his wand-hand to the right, moving a little closer.

"A decision," Harry answered, his left hand reaching out and taking Ginny's right, beneath their wand hands. They continued to circle, Harry now drawing his wand across that of his girlfriend and opponent, like the bowstring across a violin. "Two paths present themselves. One slow and steady, one fast and dangerous. I would ask…" She was leaning closer, her eyes fixed on his with rigid and iron will written in them as she slowly inched the crossed wands back towards her right, "I would ask," he went on, in a low murmur, his face turning and lowering towards hers, "I would ask the woman I love which path we should take."

Their lips touched- and in that instant Harry slid his wand free of the embrace, rushing it past its sister wand with a surge of magic that made his head spin, and holding it high and clear- even as Ginny did the same. Left hands, clasped lovingly, curled away, each pressing into the breastbone of the other and pushing them back, each landing in battle-ready stance.

"Omniflux gaseous!" Harry was the quicker, the blaze of light briefly turning night to stark, sunless day as he dropped into a half-crouch, his wand arm supported by his left.

"Noxiatordusis maxima!" Ginny's counter spell drove a shard of twisting darkness, thick and cold, into the blazing light, and Harry twisted aside, sending three Stunners her way in short succession as he matched her footwork, circling again, drawing closer.

"Ars Magica Inversa!" the black spiral twisted under Harry's attack, writhing in upon itself, and flashing back towards Ginny-

"Finite Incantatem- oh, I'm going to have to remember that one, Potter," she grinned, slashing a Stinging Jinx at him as she negated her own reversed spell.

"Just don't start fiddling with it," he chided her, as his shield faded to transparency again.

"Fiddling? FIDDLING?!" She flushed scarlet with mock anger- and that last jest gave him the time he needed.

"Captivia Incanus!" Harry lurched two paces forward, enclosing Ginny in the inverted shield just as she pronounced her counter curse. He felt it- a beating sensation against the back of his head, and staggered, as his shield absorbed the spell- and wavered, fading, Ginny shaking her hand, fingers stinging and numb from the same effect of magical backlash as he'd felt once, when Milner had used the imprisonment charm on him- and in that moment of distraction- "Expelliarmus! Accio wand!" Her wand flew from her hand, and the Gryffindor Seeker snatched it out of the air. The clock tower tolled a quarter to ten.

A gust of wind blew hair across Ginny's face. Holding her injured hand to her side, she reached up with her left hand to pull it back against her head. Harry stepped forward, his own wand still trained, and her hands raised, either side of her head in surrender. He rested the tip of his wand against the centre of her chest, his eyes burning mischievously.

"Well," Harry murmured. "Well, well, well."

Ginny, her hands still raised, watched him, a mysterious smile on her face. When he stood close in front of her, his wand still lifted between them, she parted her lips.

"I believe you mentioned 'fast and dangerous'?"

"I believe I did." As Harry's own smile broadened, something flickered behind him- and an unmistakeable sensation intruded upon his consciousness. Someone was holding a wand to the back of his neck. No- some _three_ people were holding wands to the back of his neck.

"That's about enough of that." Ron reached over Harry's shoulder and took his wand, as Ginny dropped her raised hands and, with an impish smirk at him, leant forward, very close, and retrieved her captured wand from between Harry's suddenly loose fingers. Very slowly, Harry turned, his own hands in the air, and watched, as Ron, Neville, and Parvati Patil shimmered back into visibility, the disillusionment charm fading into the night.

"How long?" He asked Ginny, in a casual tone of voice, as Parvati and Neville revived Seamus, Hermione, and Tonks, while Ron and his sister kept Harry very firmly covered.

"Oh, since about ten minutes before you lot started flying up this way," Ron told him, earnestly, as Hermione, rubbing her head and rather pale of face, came over to them. "Guessed you'd try something like that."

"What?" Hermione's voice sounded a little shrill in the sudden stillness of the night air.

"Look, do we win, or what?" Ron looked down his wand at Harry, a smile on his face, but a pugnacious determination fixed in his eye none the less.

Harry looked round. He and Hermione were both disarmed, Seamus seemed barely conscious- although Harry rather suspected that might be partially due to the fact that semi-conscious, Tonks was allowing him to lean heavily against her in order to stay upright, and they were surrounded by four armed opponents. He wrinkled his nose at Ginny.

"I'd got such a nice plan to celebrate winning, too," he muttered, before turning back to Ron. "Err… yes? You win. I surrender." He lifted his hands a little higher, by way of illustration.

"Thank goodness for that!" Ron breathed out sharply, hurriedly handing Harry back his wand and pocketing his own. "If you think I'm going to try duelling you in a hurry you've got another think coming."

Harry stuck out his hand.

"Seriously well done, mate." He shook hands with Ron warmly. "Low-down, dirty, and downright dishonest."

Ron nodded his head towards Ginny.

"I'm her brother."

"Watch it, Ronniekins," Ginny folded her arms, and gave him a dark look. "I notice you waited until _after _I got myself painted into a corner before you decided to show yourself. That wasn't in the plan, was it?"

"No," Ron shrugged, unrepentantly. "Lot funnier, though." He stopped, quite suddenly.

Harry followed his gaze. Hermione had been set on winning this battle. He remembered her angry words in the Room of Requirement. She looked at Ron now, the Red Queen facing the Green, battered by spells, terrified by broomsticks, Stunned by wand… and defeated. Hermione sucked in her breath. Ron winced, unhappily, his joyful mood failing.

"Gods, that was fun." Hermione was laughing- quietly, strained at first, then louder, shaking her head as if she couldn't quite believe it. "And you… you…" she hit him in the chest with her fist- not hard, but Ron's hands lifted in surrender, as if copying Harry's or Ginny's before him. Hermione threw back her head, grabbing Ron's shoulders. "Beaten!" she grinned, shaking her head. "Fair and square- well…"

"Well, I didn't cheat any more than you did," Ron finished, for her, a very peculiar look in his eyes, nodding first at Harry's broomstick, discarded on the battlements, then at Tonks.

"Turn and turn about." Hermione told him, and released his shoulders, patting his arm as she did so. "You're not bad, Ron Weasley," she told him, still smiling broadly, that same spark in her eyes that Harry had seen in Ginny's, and felt in his own. The race. "Not bad at all," Hermione finished, letting go of Ron's arm a little regretfully. Ron stared at her, his lips whitening, as if he'd never noticed admiration on Hermione's face before- at least, not when pointed at him. Compassion, yes- friendship, of course… and he'd always been able to make her laugh, even when he hadn't meant to… He stared at her, and, Hermione, seeming to recollect herself, let her arm fall.

"Yes, well," she said, with a slight toss of her head, still smiling, if a little less broadly than before. "That was wonderful- the flying over thin air with nothing but a stick to support me bit notwithstanding, but we probably ought to start clearing up, there's a lot to do, and I really ought to say sorry to--"

Harry didn't even see his friend move- but one minute, Hermione had been talking, Ron still standing, staring at her as if he'd never seen her before, and the next, Ron's arm was round her waist, and he was kissing her under the moonlight as if the idea of doing anything else had never occurred to him.

Tonks raised her eyebrows. Seamus wolf-whistled.

Harry felt a strong desire to crow with delight. He grinned as broadly as Ron had when Harry had shaken his hand, and gave Ginny's hand a gleeful squeeze. Now, he just had to make very sure that Ron wouldn't go and slide back again… he regarded the embracing pair critically, trying to second-guess Ron's thoughts, working out which way the boy was likely to jump next. If only…

Hermione drew her head back from Ron's for a moment, as if sensing something in the air, putting a hand to his lips to hold him back, and looked round at them.

"Harry?" she asked, in a faintly resigned tone.

"Mm?" He was lost in thought, pondering the Ron problem.

"Go away. Take this lot with you." Then Ron kissed her again.

* * *

It was nearly an hour later. Tonks had pointed out to them that there was a faint possibility that the teaching staff might object to finding the school littered with battered, jinxed, and semi-conscious students on the morning of the last day of the working week, so she, Ginny, and Harry, had worked their way along the third floor, enervating, counter cursing, and lifting jinxes as they went. Harry also rehung and repaired several doors and staircases which had suffered the brunt of the powers at play- since doors repaired by Tonks tended to have minor technical flaws of the non-opening variety. Luna Lovegood and Dean Thomas had joined them, stepping over a large pile of unconscious Ravenclaw Quidditch players in order to do so, and, once Ginny and Tonks had restored both parties' vision and Dean's mobility, they'd helped to revive those they'd beaten, not to mention release Justin Finch-Fletchley, who had the distinct air of a boy who would never be able to look a Christmas tree in the face again.

There had been, Harry had thought, almost an awkward moment when Tonks had told Luna where they'd left Hermione and Ron- but then the misty-eyed Ravenclaw witch had beamed delightedly, and walked off singing to herself. Finally, they'd returned to the Room of Requirement, where Blaise, still eyeing the Marauders' Map rather warily, had demanded a lengthy account of the battle from a more personal perspective. Harry hadn't seen any particular end to that in sight, before Goyle had loomed in the doorway, looking pointedly at the clock, and escorted Ms Zabini from the room. He had no idea what was going on there- and had rather determined not to attempt to find out. Young Slytherins, Harry decided, were probably found under gooseberry bushes.

Finally, they'd seen a sandy-eyed Tonks safely into the corridor to her rooms close to the Hufflepuff common room, and, alone, wandered slowly back towards Gryffindor Tower. The howling winds outside barely reached this deep into the castle, and Hogwarts was still and silent- but for the occasional distant rattle of suits of armour, far off in the darkness, disturbed by meddling ghosts. According to the map, Ron and Hermione were back in the Common Room- indeed, it seemed that nearly everyone had gone to his or her place of rest- the only notable exception being Filch, who was prowling around the third floor, presumably eager to find anything Harry had neglected to mend, in order to angrily report it to McGonagall in the morning. Harry folded the map, returning it to his pocket. His limbs were sore, his wand arm ached, he was beaten, defeated- and happy. He had, in point of fact, for the moment almost entirely forgotten the dark interlude in the conflict, when Voldemort's mind had risen in his scar. It was significant- the first contact in some time- but to decide how it was significant, and what should be done about it, would take a cooler head, and the morning light, he acknowledged. Besides, at the moment, his other nemesis had other plans.

"We really ought to get back, Gin," he leant against her, stroking her hair away from her face with one hand, and interspersing his words with light kisses to her lips. Ginny leant forward, arms encircling his waist, and returned the teasing kiss more forcefully.

"Mm... you're... you're right," she murmured, one hand sliding further up his back, the other lower. Her lips pulled into a mischievous smile. "They made enough fuss about Monday night, didn't they?" She pushed forward suddenly, launching them both away from the corridor wall and into the centre of the floor. Harry's hand curled round her head to cup the back of her neck, while his other arm slid round her waist in turn. He looked down at her with starry eyes.

"Mind you, we were innocent then," he remarked tenderly. "Might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb."

"Oh, so I'm a joint of mutton, am I?" Ginny lifted her eyebrows archly. Harry's cheeks flushed, and a stuttered apology died on his lips as he caught the glint in her eyes. His own narrowed slightly, and his fingertips slid gently up and down her spine.

"I simply mean," he began, with dignity,

"_I_ don't think you're mean or simple," Ginny's eyes gleamed. Harry kissed her.

"I mean," he recommenced, with less dignity, "That if whenever we're away on our own for perfectly innocent reasons people always think we've been..."

"... Thinking laterally," Ginny suggested brightly,

"Thank you... then maybe," he pulled her to him tightly for a moment, "It could be that the only way our luck works is that the only time people will _believe_ we're innocent..."

"Hm. Devious, improbable, and over-complicated." Ginny considered.

"I've been practising."

"Practice is good."

* * *

Things might have continued in a distinctly improper vein, had Peeves not chosen that precise moment to appear through the ceiling above their heads with a loud pop, and deposit a balloon filled with water on top of them from a great height. Shivering, and moderately drenched, Harry and Ginny retreated to Gryffindor Tower.

"Password?" The Fat Lady yawned prodigiously.

Harry regarded her flatly- and his mind went blank.

"I'm all wet," he commented, unnecessarily.

"Oh, I can see that, dearie," the portrait assured him. Now," the Fat Lady inspected her fingernails. "Password?"

Harry leant on the portrait frame. A small puddle was forming about his feet, and he could hear Ginny hopping from foot to foot, teeth chattering next to him. "I'm soaked," he told her, in a level tone. "My girlfriend is distinctly soggy, and it's getting more than a little cold."

The Fat Lady clucked sympathetically. "Now, what was that password again?"

Harry drummed his fingers on the edge of the frame. "Try 'I'm Sirius Black's godson'," he suggested. The Fat Lady considered this for a moment.

"That'll do nicely," she decided, after a moment, and the door swung open.

"Why didn't you just let me say it?" Ginny wondered, as they clambered through into the Common Room, doing their level best to avoid the inevitable stares.

"It's a matter of masculine pride," Harry protested.

"Absolutely, James Potter," she remarked, lips twitching.

"Well, it--" Harry fell silent, slowly scanning rows of sombre, unhappy faces. "What's happened?" he asked, a cold dread forming in his stomach that had nothing whatsoever to do with Peeves or water bombs.

Ron was standing by the fire, as drenched as Harry and Ginny together, a glum look on his face, and one hand held out, clasped with Hermione's left, held up from the armchair in which she was sitting.

"What's happened?" Harry repeated. Hermione let the Evening Prophet fall into her lap. She had changed into a dressing gown, and the strong smell of damp hair suggested that she had shared Ron's ducking. However, that was not what had soured her mood. Releasing Ron's hand, she turned the newspaper and held it out to him.

"What's a-doing?" Ginny came up behind him, and gave a little hiss, reading the headline with angry eyes.

EMERGENCY REGULATIONS FOR PUBLIC SAFETY AND  
PROVISION OF CONTROL ORDERS AGAINST CREATURES  
SUSPECTED SYMPATHETIC TO 'HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED'!

MINISTRY FOR MAGIC  
PASSES HYBRID AND HALF-BREED  
REGISTRATION ACT.

IMMEDIATE EFFECT.

"Every two weeks." Hermione grated. "On a day chosen by the local office of the Department for the Control and Registration of Dangerous Half-breeds, any hybrid non-human, parti-human, or non-human recognised sentient being is required to report to the office to confirm their current address, and present a signed affidavit from a recognised human to confirm their… good conduct." She turned to look up at Ron, reaching out for his hand again, gripping it with whitened knuckles. "That means… that means Lupin, Harry. That means Hagrid- Merlin only knows what it means about Grawp- it means the Centaurs-"

"Umbridge wouldn't dare try anything with them," Ginny protested- "And they won't go-"

Hermione shook her head again, blinking rapidly, tears in her eyes. Harry swallowed hard. She looked up at him again, her voice cracking.

"And this is different to persecuting Muggle-borns and Half-bloods _how_, exactly?" Hermione asked, as the tears began to fall.

* * *

**Author's Note: ** Well, that was a long one. Still, I'm rather pleased with it. The sharp of brain may spot one loose end... and my word, how I'm enjoying writing one of the characters while knowing what's coming up next term.

**Review Responses:**

**jedimacewindu:** Welcome aboard. Mind you, you're thirty-two chapters away from reading this... but still, welcome, when you get this far. Thanks for the nice words.


	51. Jinx

****

**Chapter Fifty-One:** Jinx

A white rose, blooming in the darkness.

Reaching out for her with charred fingers- flying away, far and high into the sky.

"Will you raise the stakes?" Magnetic grey eyes capture hers and he reaches down to offer her his hand, lifting her to her feet.

"I've known you a long time now." He smiles, graciously inclining his head in acknowledgement of her words, as the dance begins. Slow it is, ancient and rich in tradition and dignity. They part, each bowing to his or her opposing partner, and standing on the teachers' dais, Professor Dumbledore raises his hands, facing the orchestra behind him.

"All your life." A suavely confident smile transforms his sombre face, and he takes her hand again, leaning forward to peck her on the cheek as the dance draws them together, his peculiarly colourless hand drawing hers up to his lips. The music rises, and he kisses the ring on her finger. She pulls her hand away, his touch as cold as ice, as the dancers form two lines, and stride apart.

He looks at her, blood bright and red on his lips.

"You haven't forgotten?" he asks, his face twisted with anxiety. "But you promised, Ginny!" Petulant, he seems younger, reaching out to her, and she shakes her head- but he beckons, and the dance draws them closer, as the storm presses home outside.

The dancers parade to left and right, and though she buffets against it, the music of the dance draws her back to him, and he watches her fondly, a confident smile on his face. "Dance with me." He takes her arms, and they begin to waltz, the rouged print of his bloody hand seeping into the satin sleeve of her wedding dress.

Thunder crashes against the walls of the hall, and lightning etches itself upon the glass panes. His hand catches her in the small of the back and she twirls, gracefully from his arms to curtsey, standing before him across the central aisle.

"First, we bow to our opponent."

Next to her, Luna Lovegood bowed to Severus Snape, as the lightning smote the windows for a second time, harsh and jagged against the purple night.

The man in grey touched his fingertips to his lips, and held out a white rose.

"A gift. He wilts in my keeping, you see." The smile again, and the lightning struck for a third time. She touched her hand to her chest, and brought it away slick with blood, as Dumbledore struck up the music once again- a melody loud and discordant as the man with grey eyes takes her hands again, and the blood flows down her wrists on to her gown already flowing scarlet. He draws her close to him, parting his lips, and his mouth is filled with red.

"Can't you hear it, Ginny?" he whispers as he kisses her in tenderness, wading through the great sanguine river. Faster, the violins saw, until bowstrings weep tears of blood. Louder, sound the great horns, as Professor Dumbledore's hands rise and fall, twin wands conducting the orchestra.

Naked she is, and the thick tide of red rises up about her shoulders, his hands holding her arms above her head, and the window cracks as the lightning strikes for a third and a fourth time.

"Can't you hear it?" he kisses her again, grey eyes kind, pleading, and the blood rises higher, all about her naked figures dancing, glistening red, until they slide beneath the surface.

Faster and louder the symphony is played, a danse macabre, wild and manic. The conductor turns, a pale, serpent face lifted to the heavens, as the sixth stroke of lightning breaks apart the hall, and strikes down upon the wands of the serpent.

"Can't you hear the music?" It swells, great waves of blood flowing down the shattered hall towards them, and she cries out in fear and distress, turning away as the serpent rises. Again, the lightning forks down, and it strikes the face of the serpent-man, forcing him to his knees. She lets go the hand of the grey-eyed man, reaching her pale arm imploringly up toward the raging heavens as the serpent falls, the ocean of blood closing above her head.

"Speak." That last word carries her down into darkness and silence.

* * *

Fighting to breathe, her arms clawing at the soft, enveloping darkness around her, warm and red, trying to struggle upwards, to break the surface… pushing back the blankets, smothered in the red tide, a sudden chill on her stomach, her hands entangled in the bedclothes, the snarled and tangled grip upon her hair her own… She kicked out, fighting off the drowned hands below, pulling open streaming eyes and drawing in one harsh, long breath after another.

"Are you all right, Ginger?" Marion Williams propped herself up on one elbow in the darkness, a fuzzy shape in the fuzzy blackness, her voice sounding concerned. "You've been snorting and grunting like a hippogriff in labour."

Ginny sat up in bed, bunching her pillows up behind her and drawing her knees up, hugging them with clasped arms over the blankets. Her eyes sought out the midnight blue of the sky outside the dormitory window, and found the familiar pale moon.

"Fine," she answered, a little croakily, and swallowed, to wet her throat. "Just a nightmare, that's all." She could hear her breathing, whistling slightly, hard and fast, and swallowed again, staring straight ahead into the blackness of the room. "Sorry- I didn't mean to wake you up."

"You sure you don't need me to get Madam Pomfrey or anything like that?" the other girl asked.

"No- really, it's fine." Ginny nodded to herself, lowering the blanket a little, letting the cold night air chill the beaded sweat on her forehead, arms, and throat. It was a commonplace sensation- she remembered lying in bed with a fever when she was very small, the cold of the night the only relief she'd felt for almost two days. It was a feeling that assured her she was awake again. "I just… want to sit up for a while. Go back to sleep. Thanks," she added, feeling it was somehow necessary.

"All right." The humped shape in the other bed turned over. "See you in the morning."

"Mm." Ginny nodded the apology in the darkness, and closed her eyes, letting her head sink forward. She did not sleep- but it seemed to her that a face took shape in the waiting darkness, a burned and blackened face screaming in agony, and she jolted backwards, afraid to open her eyes lest she should see it with her open eye- but equally compelled to do so.

Nothing but the still darkness of the bedroom confronted her, the stars swimming in their empty sea outside the window. Not daring to close her eyes again, she drew her lips back from her teeth, kicking off the covers and holding her knees, until her teeth chattered from the cold, and she pulled the blankets forward over herself once more, turning on her side and laying down. This had not been her first nightmare these past few days. Abruptly, she pushed the covers back to her waist once more, sitting up and pressing her now cold hand against her forehead. At least her nightmares were just that- warnings from her own mind. She tried to close her eyes, resolved, squeezing them tight, but tiny dots of colour jumped and swam in her vision, their waving, tiny, endless self-absorbed motions curiously familiar. She opened her eyes, and, peering hard into the gloom, stared hard into nothingness until she could see the same with her eyes open as with them closed.

Sitting with her back against the bed head, the redhead massaged her clammy forehead with the heel of one hand. She sighed, not wanting to look at the clock. The quality of light outside the window- or rather, the absence of it- told her that it was far from dawn, sometime in the long and desolate hours. Her roommates had drifted off to sleep, now, the rhythm of their breathing subtly changed. Again, she closed her eyes- not hoping for sleep so much as to guide her imagination along some more pleasant path- but, although no horrors loomed up in her mind's eye, the nagging and unpleasant instinct that, when she next opened her eyes, something _would_ be in front of them intruded again and again on her train of thought. She almost gave in- almost opened them in panic, but a certain hard knot of defiance took hold inside her, and she held both eyes firmly, rigidly closed, listening to the room, her senses heightened.

Everything was as it should be. Ginny reassured herself firmly of that- but the very nature of that combative determination which had driven her to resist her fears had now driven the vestiges of sleep from her, and she sat, listening and waiting, growing more wakeful and, paradoxically, as the fear receded, ever more taken by the temptation to open her eyes and see.

There was nothing to see. She stated that rather firmly to her own contrary mind. A dark room. Four beds- aside from her own. Three sleeping girls. She tried to visualise the room before her closed eyes, imagining them, placing them as if linked to her.

There was Marigold- that was easy, the Remembrall she kept on her bedside table was something Ginny could almost feel, not so much by itself as by the way it gently nudged against the castle around them. That was a thought. She felt her brow crease in a frown, and scratched the tip of her nose with one forefinger. That was what the dancing motes before her eyes had reminded her of, of course- Milner's Thaumometer and the magical field inside it.

Letting her head fall back, she slowly opened her arms, leaving them to lie flat on the bed, while her hair flowed over the bedstead behind. A faint twinge of amusement came to her, despite the nightmare not so long ago, as she visualised herself.

_Trelawney,_ she decided. _Passed out and fallen over backwards potted on a gallon of sherry half way through prophesying someone's death. Probably Harry's. It usually is. Either that or some Veela trying to impress someone._

_Focus, Ginny._

Now, then, that was the Remembrall- yes, the charm around it was a fairly silly thing, really.

They'd made a basic one in Charms last term- it reached into the holder's mind and plucked, reflected, and amplified randomly chosen memories- just flashes of thought- smells, tastes, glimpses of vision- all to jog the memory of the ball's owner, to stir up old recollections in the hope of finding the right one. The problem, of course, was that if you knew how it worked, and consequently became conscious of, and looked for all the images flung back at you, it became much less likely to do its job successfully, since all it would remind you of was the desire to remember.

She let her thoughts brush against the magic- as she had done in Grimmauld Place, thinking her way into the nooks and crannies of the old spells.

It helped, she found, having watched the thaumometer during Milner's class. The sensations were weak, flighty, hard to pin down. She found herself imagining how the vortex would have reacted to such and such a feeling. Perhaps- something like a ripple, the faintest whisper of a disturbance from the background swirl where the stolid and squat sensation of the quiescent Remembrall rested in Hogwarts' magical field.

Her frown growing more intent, Ginny visualised that swirl of magic in her mind, imagining that ripple, that bump in the fabric, and feeling where it seemed to fit in. Something else? Yes- not far away, another note being played. She wasn't sure what it was- close to the ball, she thought, probably the same table. Some small charmed object or other.

Hermione's restrictions had exasperated her. In the weeks since Christmas, when the two of them had had time to paw over Hermione's notes and theories on Harry's scar, which had been infrequently enough, as first Blaise' story, then the Ministry's machinations, had impressed their way to the forefront of their activities, Ginny had seen the debate on theory against practice repeated, on a number of occasions.

She respected the elder girl's judgement. Ron had explained the concept of 'Hermione is probably right' to his sister around a fortnight before Ginny had, in fact, met Hermione for the first time, and Ginny was still inclined to agree with it- however, equally like her brother, she was also occasionally inclined to add the second axiom; 'This gets annoying.'

A little defiantly, although not entirely sure who she was rebelling against, she tensed her own body, visualising her wand, lying on top of a little carved owl-shaped wandstand- a gift from her brother Charlie, a year or so ago- and focusing her thoughts on the feel of magic, flowing through it. She twisted her mind in a particular way, feeling the almost audible tone which arose, the subtle shiftings of the overall harmony. It was a matter of instinct- that was all. Of course, blindly throwing spells together with no thought to the consequences was dangerous- Ginny's impatience rose at the thought- but what, it seemed to her, her brother's girlfriend stubbornly refused to accept was that Ginny was doing nothing of the sort. Theory was important- of course it was. She knew full well that she would not have been able to do half the things she had done without Hermione's assistance- the Switching Spell on the portraits at Grimmauld Place, for instance- if it hadn't been for Hermione and the Black family library, she wouldn't have even known how the spell was supposed to work- but, once she knew, once she had a feel for it- then the actual process of changing things was not something she could do in some wonderful methodical 'safe' way.

Please show your working.

I just did it. It worked. That was my working.

Ginny gritted her teeth, and snatched up her wand from the tabletop, feeling small sparks flickering from her hair.

She was being unfair. It wasn't Hermione. Ginny knew in a hundred years she couldn't have worked out the answer to Harry's scar- even if she had been in any fit state to consider the problem at the time. The best she would have been able to come up with- the best she _had_ come up with, since then, was to acknowledge that the scar was vaguely 'Voldemort coloured'. She wasn't even sure what that meant, to be honest with herself, but it was the only way she could find to articulate that curious sensation of touching, seeing, hearing magic- that was all of those perceptions and yet none of them at the same time. Still, it would have been- had been- quite meaningless without the framework of logic and reason that the older girl had built up.

Nodding to herself, as if trying to fix that more firmly in her errant thoughts, the young woman took several calming breaths, looking steadily at the tip of the wand in front of her. She moved it through the dark obscurity of the room, gently sweeping motions, doing her best to create neither spark nor sound. It had taken some time to get accustomed to a new wand- and it had not been an even or a steady process. In Diagon Alley, the thrill of the fight and her own desperate need had flowed out through her magic- as Professor Milner had told Harry, magic and adrenaline together were both a dangerously addictive cocktail, and a natural combination. Ginny could even- dimly- imagine she saw how this might be. It was- or, at least, it seemed- as if her mind and her magic flowed together, then raw emotion smoothed the pathway, not merely feeding the magic but- she sought for a metaphor inside her mind and came up with an image of her father, many years ago, sitting cross-legged in the dusty backyard, the better part of an old Ford Anglia scattered around him, and trying to explain the concepts of oil and lubrication to Fred and George. The twins had learned something useful to them from that discussion- they had learned that oil was flammable, and now Ginny supposed that she had gained something from it as well. Yes, that was it, as much as anything else. Raw emotion smoothed the path- but it also took the spell caster ever further down the road into undirected and uncontrollable magic, because, when oil is involved, there too is also involved a certain tendency to slip.

Without that urgent, burning need, she had found things took longer, at first, than she had anticipated. Oh, spells still worked, but- unused to the phoenix feather core- she had found herself clumsier, slower, than previously, and it had taken a week or so to get used to the very different feel of the new wand. She'd returned to first principles- going over some of the first spells she'd learned and used, taking the time to apply some useful weather-proofing to Helena's Nest in the process. She'd learnt how to cast a simple warming charm in her first year. True, she'd nearly set her socks on fire doing it, and hardly helped matters by trying to waft the incandescent smoke away with one of her textbooks- she wondered, for a moment, shrugging her shoulders, if that might just possibly have had something to do with Tom Riddle's haste and eagerness to transfer himself to Harry's ownership. Unlikely, she decided. Still, by her second year she had been proficient enough in that charm to keep her toes warm when they'd all had to camp in the Great Hall out of fear of Sirius Black, and had added to that ability with a reasonably efficient draught-excluding jinx that she'd picked up from one of her mother's old Witch Weekly editions and tweaked a little until she'd got it how she liked it. _That_ had at least made her corner of the tent rather more comfortable than anybody else's when the family and Harry had gone to see the Quidditch World Cup, and the following year Professor Flitwick had taught them a very neat little impermeability charm which would keep the rain from coming in through the windows of the Nest with no extra tampering required.

It had not taken her long to catch up on herself- after all, she had used Harry's own holly wand on an intermittent basis over Christmas without any particular difficulty- but, then, perhaps again there was quite some difference between using a wand that you _knew_ you were only borrowing, and so applied extra effort instinctively, and between using a wand that was your very own. None the less, by the time of Thursday's duel she had managed to synthesise the instincts of using a birch-and-dragon scale wand with those of holly-and-phoenix-quill wand, and found birch-and-phoenix quill every bit as satisfactory as she had predicted it would be when she had fought with it in London.

Still- perhaps that was part of it. Silently, she slipped from beneath the covers and went to stand on bare feet by the window. The frustration, the pinned feeling she'd briefly had of having to inch along at a slower pace-

"Idiot." She hissed the insult to herself, and grinned regardless. Nonsense. The experience had helped her more than it had hurt her- she'd grown into this new wand as an adult, not a child, and learned its ways and quirks with a keener eye than an eleven-year old could possibly have had. She knew full well what the truth of the matter was- and she hadn't needed dark dreams to explain it to her.

Voldemort. Ginny leant her arms on the window's edge and peered out at the night, looking across the tower towards the far turret where Harry was sleeping. It wasn't just about helping him. It never had been- just the thought of what Voldemort was- what he really was, and the dreams he dreamed made her shudder, and an ugly little knot of anger form somewhere in her stomach- and that would have happened even if she had never heard the name 'Harry Potter'.

Ginny closed her eyes again, feeling the world around her with that obscure and uncertain sense. She toyed with it sometimes, reaching out with her mind, as if trying to feel others. Harry? No. Too far away- at least, too far away to be anything clear- there was a sort of general impression of wizardries in which she supposed she might possibly be able to catch a hint of Harry- but that was all. She turned back, walking steadily towards the bed, keeping heel and toe in line, and hoping not to tread on any spiders, a slight smile on her face. There was something irrepressibly wonderful about Hogwarts that nearly everyone she'd spoken to seemed to share, and that hope and eagerness resonated in its magical field. Climbing back into the bed, she drew it around herself with the blankets. It was warm. It was comforting. It was beautiful- and it was this power, this world of magic, that Voldemort was corrupting, twisting into some black and dank wasteland of warring powers. Ginny felt her anger growing, her will gathering, and the tapestry of restful magic distorting, the harmony growing fainter, discordant. She turned sharply on to her back, staring up at the ceiling again.

"It's sick," she whispered, remembering the Imperius Curse, twisting in her mind. "It's disgusting." That brought back another horrible memory- the face of Lucius Malfoy, cold and set, his wand levelled before him- and the burning agony of the Cruciatus as it seemed to swell and stretch beneath her skin and press apart the balls and sockets of her joints, hooked needles gouging into her flesh. She sat up, leaning over the side of the bed, and feeling her stomach heave, swallowing hard, eyes tight closed. "And I- I won't have it on my world," she said to the night, her voice cold and determined. "Not any of them. Not after--" she baulked, the burning face of her brother once more rising in her closing eyes- but this time it brought a cold anger, not fear or despair, "I will not."

* * *

Grass and sky traded places in his vision as Harry clung to his broom for dear life, accelerating forwards and downwards, his eyes darting to and fro, his mind reaching out behind them. Something flashed towards him from one side, and, gritting his teeth and lying low on his Firebolt, he flew still lower, the ground roaring past, a sonic concussion roaring in his ears as the Bludger whipped past, spun in mid-air and precipitated itself at Seamus, some way ahead.

"Friendly practice, I said!" he heard Ron bellow. "You break my Chaser and you'll have to find me a new one, Kirke!"

Harry rolled upright as he banked into the turn, ignoring Andrew Kirke's rather red-faced apologies to Seamus and Ron, as someone's orange-socked foot flashed in front of his eyes, inches from his face.

For an instant the Golden Snitch danced close in front of him, seeming to skip up and down, keeping pace with him as he precipitated forwards, and then, as if caught by a fishing line from some celestial angler, it lifted sharply up and away. Harry hauled up the stem of his broom, braking as best he could, pouring his power back into his ascent- and the Snitch dropped, wings folding, into a hand he stretched out on instinct quicker than he could think about it, as a shrill note sounded from Ron's whistle.

The boy breathed a slight sigh of relief. He wasn't playing his best today, he was well aware of it, and, for once, was rather glad not to be set against Ginny.

She flew past him on her way down to the foot of Ron's goal hoops, winking at his slightly distracted expression as she did so.

"You look like I feel," the girl commented, taking hold of his broom with one hand and using her other to fight her Comet's inclination to tilt inward towards the Firebolt, maintaining their parallel flights and borrowing Harry's speed into the bargain. Harry shot a glance sideways at her, a rueful twitch of his lips acknowledging the tired strain in her eyes.

"Not bad, everyone," Ron was saying, dismounted from his broom by the time they arrived, and leaning on the post of the middle goal hoop. "Harry, you're not a ghost, so stop trying to fly through people. Andrew- yeah, well, you heard what I said- but if that had been Maria Henbane or any of those Ravenclaw Chasers and not Seamus then you'd have done well then. That Bludger came at you at a bad angle to start with."

As Ron went on with his analysis, Hermione rose from her sheltered corner behind the lee of one of the stands, and came over to join them- nervously ducking to avoid a buzzing Bludger which was thus far evading Kirke and Sloper's efforts to restrain it.

"Any sign of Dumbledore and Hagrid yet?" Harry asked her anxiously as he stepped from his broom.

The bushy-haired witch shook her head. "Not yet," she told him glumly, her lips slightly pinched. "It's a long way to the village and back on foot, Harry," she looked up, feeling the need to add some sort of comfort to her words.

Professor Dumbledore had returned to Hogwarts the night of the Evening Prophet's announcement- Harry had seen the lights going on in his tower, and the very next morning observed him striding into the Forbidden Forest, his normally kindly face pale with some great anger. He had been going to speak to the centaurs- Neville had allegedly seen him standing, close to the forest's edge, talking to one of them later in the day. What had arisen from that meeting, Harry was not quite sure- but certainly, no troops of centaurs had been observed making their way into Hogsmeade to declare themselves non-human.

Firenze- the great palamino Divination teacher- had been rather more visible, not to mention audible, in his expressions of contempt for Ministries of Magic - 'short sighted wizards who deny their own knowledge and dress their power in the foolish pantomimes of Muggle bureaucracy rather than admit the ineffable courses of the stars'- but for all the centaur's high-minded dismissal of the Ministry's ruling, and, indeed, for all he loftily answered concerned questions from his admiring pupils- by a curious coincidence, most typically the female members of his classes- by proclaiming that destiny would follow its natural pattern, and the simple-minded edicts and prejudices of fools who would not lift their eyes to the heavens could have no effect upon it- for all that, none the less, Ginny had reported to Harry that the ground-floor Divination classroom's tiled floor was crazed with cracks, a great furrow of tiles reduced almost to crimson powder where Firenze had strode up and down, hooves pounding angrily on the floor in his distraction and wrath- and, when Sybil Trelawney had, largely although not entirely in innocence, asked her fellow teacher what, precisely, he intended to do if the Ministry attempted to force the issue, Firenze's reply of "What will come, will come," had carried an overtone which spoke rather more of belligerence than of fatalism.

"He'll be all right, Harry," Ginny told him, quietly, as the rest of the team gathered round, listening to Ron's critique of their performance. Harry looked at her quickly, and she gave him a slight, sad smile. "It's not like last year," she went on, and Harry realised she was referring to Hagrid, not Firenze. "You can't get a better character witness than Dumbledore, can you?"

Hagrid had gone to Hogsmeade's local government offices earlier that Saturday morning to present himself, trudging down towards the village, his big shaggy head hanging, while Dumbledore's slighter figure moved ahead, trying to engage the groundskeeper in animated conversation as they moved away, watched by various groups of students, some sympathetic- others less so. Ron and Neville had both been reprimanded by Professor McGonagall for coming to blows and hexes with a couple of seventh-year Slytherins who'd loudly expressed the hope that he would be replaced by someone human and normal.

Harry had felt almost too numb to act, watching his two old friends disappearing into the distance along the path towards the school gates, a hard knot of anger in his stomach. Dumbledore had refused his request for a meeting on the Friday, observing calmly to Harry that he was more than capable of sitting in his office disintegrating ornaments and fulminating on new and unflattering descriptions of the Acting Minister of Magic without Harry's creative assistance. The young man had taken that as a flippant dismissal- but had later that day noted Professor Milner, who was still spending much of his free time in the Headmaster's Office working on his survey of the school's protective wards, coming down to dinner rubbing his ears as if pained, and rather pale and shocked of face.

"She's doing it again," he muttered to himself, contradicting her words. "Just like before."

He'd had a hastily written letter from Remus shortly before Quidditch practice had begun- there was no address given, but being brought by Hedwig Harry rather assumed that the letter had, at least, passed through Grimmauld Place. Signed only as 'Moony', which Harry privately supposed was not, perhaps, the most cleverly inpenetrable nom-de-plume available under the circumstances, the note simply assured Harry not to worry, that all was well, and that selfsame 'Moony' was entirely capable of looking after himself. None the less, Harry had scanned the Daily Prophet anxiously. He, personally, would only be inclined to write a letter assuring anyone that 'all was well' if it quite definitely was _not_, and, if Lupin was still based at Grimmauld Place, under the Fidelius Charm, he would be incapable of giving an account of his place of abode or a character reference which would satisfy the Ministry of Magic.

Tomorrow's Prophet was promised to contain a list of 'rogue' non-humans, comprising those persons known or suspected by the Ministry of having hybrid or non-human origins, but who had not yet reported their details to the Ministry in accordance with the Registration Act. Acting Minister Umbridge had herself given a statement to the morning's edition , accompanied by a photograph which Neville had wordlessly ripped out and pinned up on the Gryffindor common room notice board for use as a target for anyone wishing to practice their hexwork, in which she had hastily responded to the many criticisms levelled at the Act, explaining, in terms so saccharine that Harry almost expected the newsprint to caramelise before his eyes, that _of_ _course_, the Ministry of Magic was quite well aware that all manner of people might have perfectly innocent reasons for not having registered in due time for the first week's census. Some might be away on holiday, or busy at work, or simply have missed the news. The Ministry considered the Act to be as much about protecting the innocent as punishing the guilty- surely all right-thinking citizens would understand what a saving grace it would be, for any poor soul afflicted with were-blood or similar deformity and wrongly accused of a crime to be able to apply to the Ministry for his or her Registration records to confirm his or her whereabouts- and, of course, to demonstrate whether any other dangerous individual might have been in the correct locale at the time.

The list was, Umbridge had apparently told the reporter with aching sincerity, in no way whatsoever to be considered a 'Wanted' list. Why, it was simply there so that friends and neighbours would be able to see if someone they knew or were close to was included on it, so that they could politely remind them of the need to register. She had personally, so she informed him, spoken to nearly a dozen unfortunately 'afflicted' persons, who were deeply grateful to her for the chance to set the record straight and clearly demonstrate that they were living their lives in an above-board and subject-to-scrutiny manner. The innocent would have nothing to hide.

When asked why, in that case, nearly a dozen wizarding households around the country had been discovered empty and deserted by Ministry officials sent to remind people of their obligations, the Acting Minister had sadly and solemnly told the reporter that, although she was deeply regretful to ever make the slightest allegation without evidence, it was the very real fear that such hybrids and non-humans had infiltrated the wizarding community with malicious intent in very large numbers that had motivated the Act in the first place.

"They are in our streets and our villages," she had said. "In our school- on our trains. Even in our very own Ministry- there are rumours that the tragic death of my predecessor Cornelius Fudge may have been partially due to treachery from within. I know that some innocents may be frightened, fearful of the heavy hand of the law. They need not be. I ask them to come forward. If they have been misled into this position of hatred and fear for their own government, it is a simple matter for them to tell their story- and in doing so to perform a valuable service, for we shall learn who our real enemies are, and their candour will be rewarded with our trust. To those that remain hidden- they are in danger. By no fault of their own, poor creatures, they are the natural allies of You-Know-Who and his kind, and it is likely that those amongst them who are already in His service will soon ensnare others. For the cause of public safety, the Ministry has no choice but to treat them as a potential threat."

The players changed out of their Quidditch robes and tramped slowly up towards the castle through the January chill, passing Ron's copy of the Quibbler between them, after Clare had applied a wind-repelling charm to the pages which was more or less successful.

Harry accepted it from Jack, unable to resist a grim smile at the cover's depiction of the gold witch and wizard emblems of the Ministry standing quaking in fear at the sight of a small werewolf placidly washing itself, while a large phalanx of caricatured Death Eaters stole up behind them. He studied the contents page. Perhaps it was due to Aloysius Milner and Lovegood's own daughter's involvement with the Association and the Order of the Phoenix, or perhaps 'Editor: S. Lovegood' himself had taken some offence at the Registration Act, but it was quite clear that the Quibbler had set aside its ordinary extraordinary editorial policy in favour of what the editorial itself, from beneath a photograph of a small, ordinary looking man with a pinched, rather pained face, and close-cropped grey hair, described as 'A Special Issue'. Notwithstanding one slightly confusing article on the subject of the mating habits of the Genevan Shin-Digging Beetle, which Harry suspected had mainly escaped the editor's deftly-wielded hatchet thanks to the writer's suggestion that inaction on the part of the Ministry of Magic was largely responsible for the beetle's decline in modern France, there was very little in the magazine which did not, one way or another, set itself very fairly and squarely at odds with Delores Umbridge, ranging from a sublimely contemptuous expose of Ministry policy from 'a senior source within the Auror organisation' who had signed herself under the pseudonym of 'Frustrated Godiva', through to Augusta Godwit's Bow-tie Registration Act, a lengthy and involved piece of proposed legislative brilliance requiring the registration as a suspicious personage any wizard caught wearing a bow tie within thirty miles of the Ministry of Magic.

He felt a warm glow spreading through him, and a sudden rush of affection towards the rather eccentric periodical. Unbalanced the Quibbler might be- indeed, downright deranged was occasionally a fairer assessment, but this was the second time the peculiar magazine had stood up to the Ministry on his side.

"I notice there's nothing from Rita Skeeter," Ginny observed, continuing to read over his shoulder.

"Apparently Luna's father had to 'let her go'," Hermione broke in, hands in her pockets, as she walked up the hill ahead of them, Ron's arm conspicuously encircling her waist. "'She would reject the most obvious scientific information available all the time', according to Luna, 'and her English grammar was appalling.' She looked at Ron, a very faint smile on her face working its way through the sombre frown that had hung there since the night before last. "The typesetting gremlins got very upset with her in the end."

"Words cannot express how deeply I'm not sorry," Harry commented acidly.

"She might regret it yet," Ginny mused. "The word is that the Ministry are going to go after unregistered Animagi next."

"Fine," Harry sighed. "They can go after Dad and Sirius then. I'd like to see Umbridge try and blame that on me."

"She probably would, at that."

"Anyone else noticed they're asking for people to submit articles for next month's edition?" Seamus frowned. Ginny nodded.

"Fancy writing something, do you?" she asked.

"Not me," Seamus rejoined with a laugh. "I don't reckon I go together with deathless prose. Broke my quill in the History of Magic exam."

"Harry and I'd probably have got higher marks if we'd done that," Ron observed. "What about you, 'Mi?"

Hermione shook her head.

"I don't even want to think about her any more than I have to right now," she told them, gloomily, as they reached the top of the driveway. "I know- satire's only about _pretending_ to joke… but I don't even feel like pretending to do it at the moment." With a shrug of her shoulders, she set her foot on the first step. "I'm going to the library for a bit- coming, Ron?"

With a slightly awkward backward glance at Harry- a glance which quickly dissolved into a confused expression perched somewhere uncomfortable between sly amusement and vague embarrassment when he noted his friend and his sister crowded over the magazine together, Ron nodded, following her up the steps and returning Seamus' grinning comments with a bland smile. Harry watched the two of them disappear inside with a faint pang, and dismissed it with an internally raised eyebrow and a shake of the head. After all, how exactly did he suppose Ron and Hermione had felt last term- to say nothing of the fact that Ron and Hermione openly and _almost_ officially going out together was infinitely less embarrassing and complicated a prospect than the previous eternal state of flux.

"It's easier to try worrying about things we can do something about," he decided under his breath, making some sense of his feelings, and Ginny nodded.

"Not… entirely sure if my brother and His-Own-Ninny would really like being put in the same category as Ickle Tommy and Devastating Delores, but I get the point." She sighed. "Just as long as _those_ two don't start kissing on top of the Astronomy Tower."

"Gin," Harry shook his head, sliding an arm around her and steering the two of them away from the doors and down towards the lakeshore, "That is a disgusting idea."

"Imagine the wedding."

"I'd rather not."

"Imagine the _children_," Ginny went on, ruthlessly.

"I'd _really_ rather not!" Harry choked, as she dug an elbow into his ribs. "Although they'd probably look a bit like Lavender did after Tonks hit her with that transfiguration jinx," he noted, after a moment. "Maybe you ought to send that in to the Quibbler?"

"Me?" Ginny's cheeks flushed, and she looked away for a moment, mouth working soundlessly as if trying to hastily come up with an appropriate retort, but unable to find anything quite appropriate. Harry squeezed her slightly. The two of them knew each other well enough now- although obviously not in some senses, in others Ginny was very much like family to him, and he to her- it was easy to forget at times how reticent she still could be around those she did not know.

"You could use another name," Harry suggested, not wanting to insult or embarrass her by withdrawing the idea, for all he'd only meant it with slight seriousness. "Jinx, maybe?" he suggested, giving her a sideways look.

Ginny looked up at him shyly, her face still a little red, but rolled her eyes.

"Er, yes, Harry," she gave him a doubtful glance. "Because that's all of one syllable different," the young woman finished, wrinkling her nose at him. "I'm sure that'd fool everyone and anyone. Actually, knowing Bum Ridge, it probably would."

"Or The Blushing Red Kitten," Harry amended, slipping out of her embrace and ducking out of the way of his girlfriend's elbow just in time.

"The Red Kitten'll make you blush if you don't watch out!" Ginny dived for him, pursuing Harry down the hill.

"Erm- quite."

Harry brought himself to a sharp halt at the edge of the woodland, facing the new speaker where he stood in the shade of an aged pine. Ginny stumbled into the back of him and he caught her with one hand to support her- as she recognised both the voice and the man behind it as he half-stepped out into the light. "I am sorry, Harry, Virginia," Dumbledore smiled absently, patting at his pockets. "I had been hoping to speak to Harry for some time- I did not wish to interrupt a tender moment," he observed, his eyes mischievous.

Harry, though, was watching the Headmaster, his face grown both hollow and nervous.

"Is Hagrid back?" he asked. Dumbledore's smile lowered slightly.

"Yes, I suppose we must be serious," he sighed, sadly. "Yes, Harry- you need not fear for your friend on this occasion, at any rate. Whilst I cannot say that I was pleased by either the import or the tone of the Ministry Officials' questions, it seems that my observation that, were Hogwarts to lose Hagrid's valuable services, the village of Hogsmeade might well soon find itself awash with all manner of unusual and ill-mannered denizens of the forest seeking gainful employment and nourishment, appeared to carry some weight."

"I ought to go and see him," Harry started, but the Headmaster restrained him with a look.

"I think not," he sighed, and, coming closer, Harry noted a strong and distinctly beery aroma coming from Professor Dumbledore's clothes and beard, for all the man's eyes were as bright and clear as ever. "We felt it necessary to repair to the Hogs' Head for some time afterwards to drown our sorrows. Hagrid will not be especially good company today, and I think it would be kinder to his self-esteem to allow him some privacy until that state has passed, don't you?"

Harry nodded.

"I suppose so- is he going to be all right about it, do you think?" he asked, knowing the answer to that before Dumbledore replied.

"He will do better than many, Harry." The old man looked at him speculatively, a queer sort of reluctance manifesting on his face. He remained silent for long enough for both Harry and Ginny to begin to feel rather awkward, unsure of themselves, standing before him as if waiting for his judgement. Finally, Professor Dumbledore nodded to himself, a little absently. "Walk with me a moment, Harry?" he asked, putting a thin hand on the boy's shoulder, and looking thoughtfully at Ginny from beneath his brows. "Would you forgive us for a moment, Virginia?" he asked, contritely enough. "Harry and I have shared confidences on a number of occasions before this. This time pays for all, as the saying does not entirely go."

Ginny nodded, a puzzled frown on her face, and touched Harry's hand. Harry tried to put an apology into his glance. Dumbledore's apparent decision to exclude her from their counsel made his teeth clench a little, and a faint intimation of anger gathered somewhere in his mind- but still, the Headmaster's gentle authority had some considerable sway over Harry Potter, and the strange, almost dejected look in the old man's eyes carried an imperative he found it very hard to disobey. The girl met his look, a certain irritation telling somewhere behind her own eyes, but she spoke softly.

"I'll meet you somewhere quiet when you're ready," she told him, slipping away.

* * *

"You do _remember_ you've left school, don't you?" Ron shook his head, facing Tonks with a resigned grin. He had been attempting to work out how, exactly, he had ended up carrying both Harry and Ginny's brooms, as well as his own, in one hand, while embracing Hermione with the other. Not that the latter task was especially difficult or inconvenient, his brain hurriedly pointed out to him, on the off chance that his girlfriend might conceivably be capable of plucking any treacherous or damaging thoughts out of his skull and reading them back to him. Reason told him that this was unlikely- however, in such matters Ron was of the opinion that Reason was far too trusting and likely to lead him into trouble.

As for Tonks, she had been leaning against the staircase inside the Entrance Hall, arms gloved and folded, her black hair loose on her shoulders, and a disconsolate and faintly surly expression creasing her face.

"What's up?" Ron asked again, in a moment, in a rather different tone of voice. The Auror swung herself upright.

"Wanted to have a word with Harry," she nodded out through the doors, "But I guess Dumbledore's got to him first." She cleared her throat. "Oh well, probably the best thing, really." She glanced around, and beckoned them towards the nearest classroom. "Ginny with them?" Ron nodded in reply. Tonks sat down on the edge of a chair, narrowly avoiding disaster.

"Well," she said bitterly, when Hermione and Ron had both found chairs of their own. "It's all up, then."

"How d'you--" Ron began, before Hermione cut him off.

"Lupin knows how to take care of himself," the girl began, mistaking Tonks' meaning. The Auror shook her head, faint rivers of dark brown flowing up through her raven locks.

"He shouldn't even have to try," she muttered, "But that's not what I mean." She kicked a desk moodily. It collapsed. "We've looked everywhere. Every single Ministry employee. Every damned Auror, every bloody Obliviator, every unspeakable Unspeakable- even old Fudge's personal staff. Any one who had the faintest reason to be in the area that Amoeba Vendetta thing came from. Anyone who _didn't _have any business being there, but who might have managed to sneak out and get there anyway." Tonks scratched her head. "We went back from about as long as that Portkey-fish could have been active, right up to the minute before you lot first saw the Giant Squid in trouble out on the lake." She paused, stretching one arm. "Months, months we've been at it- and not one single flipping thing."

"You found the Portkey--" Ron protested, but this time Tonks was the one who interrupted him.

"Whose Portkey, though, Ron?" she muttered. "It doesn't match the magical signature of anyone we've got on file- and Ministry employees get catalogued and checked as a matter of course."

"Did you check to see if anyone was missing from the records?" Hermione asked. Tonks nodded.

"No one. Living _or_ suspiciously missing presumed dead," she added, after a second. "Don't think that didn't occur to us."

"Then it _wasn't_ Umbridge?" Ron scowled, baffled.

"What about using someone else?" Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Someone untraceable?"

Tonks gave her a look.

"If they're untraceable, then how _exactly_ am I meant to trace them?" she enquired, sharply.

"Well it's worth a try, isn't it?" Ron retorted, his tone defensive- but Tonks cut him off once more.

"I know- I'm sorry, Hermione," she added, with a weary smile. "Things are getting to me a bit as well. I just thought we were… so _close_, that's all." With a sudden growl, she folded her arms. "Back when I first found that bloody fish I really thought that was going to be it, you know? We'd get the chance to tell that old cow to pack her bags and maybe even march her off to Azkaban, if we were lucky… and now, after all that, all that work goes nowhere at all. You know Umbridge did it. I know it. Dumbledore knows it- and we can't do a thing to prove it- and it feels like it's my fault. We're right back where we started. "

* * *

"I am sorry that I refused you when you asked to see me yesterday morning," the Headmaster told him. It was the first thing Dumbledore had said for some time, as they strolled slowly around the lake, the Headmaster pausing to look at various plants and rock formations as if for all the world it was a pleasant summer afternoon, rather than a blustery winter. They had walked close by the headland on which stood Helena's Nest, and Harry had seen the light burning in the windows, feeling a certain envy for Ginny and the meagre shelter of those stone walls. "I am afraid that I was not in full control of my feelings, and preferred to express them in private," Dumbledore continued candidly. "I apologise if I was rude to you."

"I understood," Harry told him, with a smile, as the turn of the path took them away, back into the woodland. Dumbledore came to a halt, watching him curiously.

Harry explained.

"You wouldn't want to hear some of the words Hermione was using the night Umbridge announced it in the Prophet."

The Headmaster's eyebrows lifted quizzically.

"Miss Granger is very widely read," he commented. "I am always ready to be impressed by the breadth of her vocabulary." He took Harry's arm in a light grip, and turned them once more along the path, meandering along beneath the overhanging eaves of the forest. Skeletal fingers of deciduous trees brushed at Dumbledore's hat as he stooped beneath them. "However, I fear you do not wholly understand, Harry- not yet." His hand shifted to Harry's shoulder, and he looked at him, his shadowed face wan and tired. "Remember that I taught Delores Umbridge- yes," he went on, pushing a trailing briar back from his face with the other hand. "Just as I taught poor Bella Black and Tom Riddle before either of them." The old man turned his face back to the path. "I remember a little girl with a shrill voice and a rather loose regard for the truth." He continued, thoughtfully. "She always wore pink, as I recall- whenever she had the choice, and was always exceptionally loud and exuberant- although a little shy, if I recollect aright, if the topic of conversation shifted to herself. It is not easy, Harry, to treat those that you have helped to raise, as enemies- especially as you will always know, in part, that their faults are in some measure due to your own errors and omissions in their education and care."

"People make their own choices, Professor," Harry protested, after a moment. "The best teacher I've ever had taught me that one."

"We sculpt our own fates and destinies," Dumbledore responded, an ironic smile touching his lips. "True, Harry- but it is a sad truth, and one's mind forever eagerly offers new twists and turns of thought in order to deny it- especially as we rapidly approach the point where it becomes necessary to face those who have chosen… unwisely, and condemn them to taste the fruits of their mistakes."

The younger man stopped walking, a chill that owed nothing to the January climate creeping down his spine as his old mentor's voice hardened.

"We cannot allow Delores to continue unchecked any longer, Harry," Dumbledore said, and his eyes closed. "I have always held that I am Headmaster of Hogwarts- no matter what Delores believes, I have never held any ambition to be Minister for Magic- either openly or behind the scenes… but," he went on, more firmly, "You will find that the responsibilities of any positions of power overlap. I believe a wise student of mine once referred to it as the 'fundamental interconnectedness of all things'. While Delores' activities inconvenienced the Order of the Phoenix, I considered it my duty to work around her, as far as possible- for we were both working in the area which was properly her responsibility. However, she has crossed a line that you and I both know we cannot allow her to cross- and there seems little hope that she will exercise the wisdom to return of her own free will. Therefore, Harry, I am afraid that- once I have warned her in clear terms of the danger she faces- if she still insists on pressing forward with her plans as before, we shall have no choice but to use force."

* * *

When Harry had first come to Hogwarts, the short winter days up in the northern latitudes in which the school resided had been one of the lesser wonders to surprise him. Since then, he had grown accustomed to Hogwarts' harsh Scottish winters, and neither the dark nights nor the grey cold particularly disturbed or depressed him. Still, by the time the clock struck five, it was already well and truly past the fall of night, and, looking up, the first stars were becoming apparent to his vision as he walked quietly round the side of the Nest, marshalling his thoughts. He'd half expected Ginny to have retreated to the school by this time, but, it seemed, she had become as lost in her work as he had in his conversation with the Headmaster. He looked in through the rough little window. Ginny had tied her hair back behind her head, and was sitting cross-legged on the bench, her wand propped upright between two books, illuminating a third, open in her lap. She frowned as she read, her left hand keeping her place while her right moved, distractedly, to and fro, feeling imaginary fields of magic in the air. The boy's lips drew back into a thin smile, to see her so focused on the task at hand, and he silently stole around the side of the little building to the doorway.

"Homework, Gin?" she started abruptly, knocking her wand over and closing the book with a heavy thump.

"Lumos," Harry knelt, retrieving the birch wand and passing it back to her. Ginny took it from his hand quite quickly, a slightly angry note in her voice.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." Harry leant against the doorframe, giving her space as she re-lit her own wand and tucked the heavy textbook away beneath _The Two Towers._ "Or spy on you," he added, with a penetrating look. Ginny held his gaze, her chin lifting slightly, brown eyes locked on green defiantly.

Harry gave her a questioning look.

"Well- I'm not going to start telling you off, Ginny," he admitted, putting one hand behind his head. "It's not my job to order you about."

"You're wrong-" she said it softly, but the faint yet undeniable hostility that had been in her face when she'd first seen him look at the books faded a little. "There are a few orders you can give me, Mr Potter- so long as we're talking about the war, not about you and me," Ginny added, with a ghost of a smile. "Still, there's a couple of orders I won't take from anyone- _especially _not from you. The first is to leave you behind- and I think another one is to do nothing. I can't do that." Her eyes moved away, focusing on the light of her wand, and Harry stepped inside, his shadow looming high on the walls and ceiling behind him, as black as the night outside the windows.

"I didn't ask you to," he said, quietly taking his seat on the other side of the pile of books. "I just asked you to be careful."

"I _am_ being careful!" Ginny seized the books in one hand and placed them out of the way behind her in one movement, looking hard at Harry again, her eyes flashing. "Harry- I'm not Florence Lovegood. I don't know what happened to her- but she knew she was getting into something dangerous. You're the one who heard Milner's story. You're right- she made a mistake- I don't know what- you don't know what- we don't even know what she was working on- but if you and Hermione are trying to say that just because Luna's mother managed to blow herself up doing something seven years ago then I can't do anything now and I've just got to sit here-- then I'm sorry, but I can't do that, Harry. I've got to do it."

"Do you think I don't know that?" Harry held out his hand. "Listen, Gin- I know. I know what it feels like- knowing you can do something, knowing you can't _not_ do it- and I know there's still more than half a chance I won't get through this alive- and you want to know something else?" He leant forwards, his eyes wide and dark. "I know full well that there's a good chance you won't either- and that some of that'll be my fault, because you're helping me." His jaw snapped shut, and he bit his lip, the pain in his face reaching out over the flash of anger. "And that's just the way it is. You're right. It's your business as well- it's your choice to make- and it doesn't make any difference- wouldn't make any difference if you were my sister, my wife, my friend or my enemy… it'd still be your choice. I don't have to be happy about it- but I do have to let you make it." He drew a deep breath.

Ginny took his hand. Slowly, she let her head tip backwards, contemplating the shadows on the ceiling for a long time.

"I think we were meant to have settled all this last summer- when we all took a certain Oath, remember?" she said, in that clarity of tone that comes after anger has run its course and ebbed away. She released his grip and touched his cheek with the same hand. "Quite a bit's happened since then, though."

"You could say that."

"I just did."

"You're useful that way," Harry told her, with a twisted sort of grin. "Anyway-" he licked his lips, looking down at the bench between them. "I'd look a bit of a twit if I asked you to stop now," he went on, words almost falling over themselves in an awkward rush. Ginny tilted her head questioningly.

"We're going to put a stop to Madam Delores Jane Umbridge," Harry's voice was flat. "… and I know how we're going to do it."

"I thought Dumbledore said…" Ginny raised her eyebrows.

"He told me to leave it alone? Not do anything?" Harry enquired, reaching up and taking her hand in his, looking rather pointedly at her. He held her hand to his lips and kissed it, looking intently at her through his spectacles. "Quite a bit's happened since then, though," he repeated her words, and let her hand go.

For a moment, Ginny held her hand where he had released it, as if willing him to continue, and then she nodded. "What's the plan, then?" she asked, brightly- so brightly that Harry suspected it of being more than a little feigned, for all the smile extended to her eyes.

Harry looked away, sliding his bag on to the floor beside him and leaning down to search through it. "We're going to need a spell," he told her. Ginny's lips quirked.

"You've changed your tune," she scolded him- although this time her tone was without bitterness in it. "One minute it's 'don't take risks', the next it's 'I need a new spell'-" she broke off, as Harry carefully slid his gold pensieve from his bag and laid it on the bench between them, looking up and capturing her eyes with his own as he did so. She swallowed. That pensieve carried bad memories for her- in more senses than one. Her heart beat a little faster in her chest, and her breathing changed- and it was not closeness to Harry that wrought either alteration, on this particular occasion.

"It's not exactly a new spell, Gin," he said, his voice unhappy. He blinked, sharply. "You need to know--"

"I'll do it," she told him quickly, as much to silence the voices of fear and doubt in her own mind as anywhere else. He took her hand again.

"This is going to take us somewhere very dark, Ginny. Maybe too dark, in the end-"

"Then we go down together." Ginny held his gaze, her lips set and her face proud, as Harry raised his wand to his temple, and pressed its tip against his skin.

* * *

****

**Author's Notes:**

Yes, I did just initial him as 'S' Lovegood. ;-p

The name 'Xenophilius' doesn't really fit the Mr Lovegood who's appearing in the first couple of chapters of the sequel to this, which I'd planned prior to reading canon DH, so Lovegood's gone for another name, like young Virginia.

****

Review Responses:

**Dogofalldoom:** For Milner, comedy is a survival strategy. On the flipside of that, survival is frequently a comedy strategy as well.

**evil-mastermind666: **The centaurs are not overly impressed by the labels applied to them either. You've just read Firenze's reaction to this- the rest of the gang's views on the subject won't be shown for a little while yet. As for Bum Ridge herself… wait and see. : )

**Jazna: **Oh, it irritates me as well when stories get abandoned permanently- that's why I was absolutely determined not to let it happen here- but, equally, if I hadn't had the break, things just wouldn't have worked. I haven't been idle- I've written up the plotline for most of the rest of the story, and a number of very key scenes are finished. A couple of evil cliffhangers, a couple of speeches, and a few moments that will hopefully be more tear-jerking than stomach churning. Oh, and speaking of stomach churning moments, Harry's eventually going to get a new nickname from Fred and George…

**Wolf's scream:** "A need to run as fast as possible just to stay in one place" does sum up how Hermione must feel, I think, faced with trying to keep Harry, Ron, and Ginny in order.

**Jedimacewindu:** That was quick- you've got from 18 to 30 in a few days. The use of new spells is fairly unavoidable, given one of the main plotlines- and besides, it's fun. I'm saving up a few noisy spells for the end of this story, as well, although minor variants of two of them have been seen so far.


	52. Morsmordre

****

**Chapter Fifty-Two:** Morsmordre

"I have seen a sky."

Bare, dead-white toes spread across splintered and cold black granite which had once been polished smooth as glass, finding tiny crevices and flaws, stretched out imperceptibly from the great crack that had rent the floor in twain. It was a ruined place. No matter how bright his star might shine, some wounds could never be made whole again. Stepping forward out of the dull grey light of a dying night pregnant with an unborn new day, the shadows swallowed up the sad pain of loss.

The crack had split the wall behind, and through it came an insistent tug of air, teasing and drawing out old ideas and ancient dreams of wisdom. He turned his face upward. Little to nothing now remained of the great, vaulted ceiling that had surmounted this lower chamber- one crumbling arch reached up tentatively towards the heavens- but fell back, unfinished, its broken stonework tip like a fingernail, dark and diseased, pointing accusingly at the fading stars overhead.

"I have seen a sky with two moons," he spoke again, moving through the shattered circle of the lower hall with a slow and sinuous gait that did not falter with his footsteps but rather seemed to glide across the ground. "One waxing, flawed and imperfect, a pale mirror of what it should be; the other waning, a pitiful mockery of its former glory- and yet, when they stood in the sky together, they outshone the brightest star."

None spoke. None dared to do so- for they could follow the path of his words well enough. A thin smile formed.

"You would do better, perhaps," his voice grew quiet, so that the robed figures that stood in rigid form about the chamber were forced to strain to catch his words, "To fear the waxing moon, rather than to live in trepidation of a dead star."

He could feel the consternation among them as he took up his ancient place, astride the very gulf of the crack itself, unwilling to yield to the memory of old failure. It was well that none of them had learned a safe path to approach their Lord in this mood. He reached up with slow and careful hands, pulling back his cowl to let the faint light touch his hairless scalp, and turned his head to and fro. "Well, Avery?" he asked the man, mute and inscrutable behind his pale mask of metal and bone. "Do you fear Harry Potter?" The question flicked out with sudden, savage delight, and his hands clasped across the rich garment of his robes.

The Death Eater's stance did not change, and no hint of his expression or thought was betrayed through the skull-mask of Walpurgis- but the deep thrill of fear was tangible in the chamber, and, all around it, the balancing tint of relief, as twelve more wizards and witches felt the eyes of their Lord leave them, and knew that Avery's answer to that deadly question- and more, his interrogator's reply to that answer, would give them enough light to see their way forward.

"No, I do not." Avery said, sharply and suddenly, cutting across the whisper of escaping breath from his Master's thin lips. "The boy has been lucky- but he doesn't know what he's dealing with. When we cut out his heart--"

"Enough." A white hand was elevated, and Avery's voice silenced without pause. "A loyal answer, my friend. Yes, loyal indeed." The pale man came forward, his serpentine visage sober and approving. He lifted his hand once more. "You put your trust in your Lord, for his greater darkness will shroud all the moons that wax and wane in time, do you not?"

The hooded Death Eater bowed his head in acquiescence. The man with the face of a snake's expression did not change, but his fingers clasped once more, then unlaced, right hand dipping into the fold of his robes. Avery's breathing caught in his throat, the faintest of gasps of fright carrying around the chamber- but he remained still, unmoving, as the long-fingered hand of his Lord and Master slid once more from the cloak, a pale grey wand held in his curling fingers.

"What price loyalty- Peter?" His wand still levelled at Avery, Lord Voldemort turned his head, singling out one smaller shape, squat and nervous. "Oh yes, I think this question is most suited for you to answer…"

"My Lord- we are yours heart and soul-" Pettigrew stammered- and the wand flashed round to focus on him.

"Blood, flesh, and bone," the Dark Lord intoned calmly, taking heed of the pitiful creature's flinch of pain at the second word. "Heart and soul, mind and magic, you are mine, Pettigrew, for only I can save you from the darkness- and yet it is poor service I receive, if you withhold those from me." His feet took him to the centre of the circle of Death Eaters, where, like a ray of inverted sunlight, a shaft of shadow fell upon the stone plinth laid across the narrow chasm in the floor. His eye turned back on Avery once again. "Think you that I am so very much a simpleton, Avery? Is my grip on reality so very slack that I need turn to my Death Eaters for mindless flattery in my desperate efforts to shore up a failing belief in myself and my destiny?" The Dark Lord shook his head. "So we see that after all, perhaps your answer is not so very loyal. A more honest and less flattering reply would have been of greater utility." His tongue flickered viciously over his lips, and, behind him in the dark corners of the room, where broken walls held back the pre-dawn light, scale slithered against scale. "The serpent is a practical animal, Avery," Voldemort told him, keenly aware of the terror in his quaking subject's mind as, behind the mask, Avery's eyes fixed desperately on the tip of the Dark Lord's wand, as if longing for the curse to come- for then, of course, once it had begun, the true nightmare, the fear, would be ended.

"The serpent lives and thrives in the world of what is, not of what it would prefer the world to be," his Master went on, drawing in the thoughts of all his Death Eaters, drinking in their fear and love, hearing them as clearly in his mind as he heard the sound of the shifting snake. The flat head of Nagini reared in the darkness, eyes glittering, and then lowered, her loops and coils sliding forward as she drew closer to him. "Or perhaps you truly have no fear of Harry Potter- or of Albus Dumbledore?" The wand swept down, and the beleaguered Death Eater flinched back- but there was no strike of pain. Wand-tip tapped against the shallow bowl, so very close to empty, which stood upon the right-hand end of the plinth. "And yet… can that be so?" Once again, the Dark Lord raised his hand, and pushed back his sleeve. "For I tell you, they are terrible." He held up his bared arm. "Have you so easily forgotten the lesson I have learned for you," the tone of sorrow rose into his voice, and he looked sadly at Avery. "The lesson I bought with such pain?"

"N-no, my Lord-" Avery stepped backwards, involuntarily, repelled by the mournful grief on his Lord's face- and contorted, a choking scream coming from behind the mask, holding his left arm out, away from his body, feebly grasping for it with his right hand, then flinching away, pulling back.

"Do not think to retreat from me, Thomas," Voldemort crooned softly. "Oh, but I see that you do understand the true way of things. He clicked his fingers gently, and Avery's head lifted, eyes twisting and turning this way and that behind the blank sockets of his mask. The Death Eater began to moan, a low, purring note that was echoed in the whispering path of Nagini as she rose up, her great body lifting and twisting around the servant who had displeased his master. "The root of wizardry lies in wisdom, not in mere strength. It is the path of folly to grow so consumed with one's own glory that one forgets the powers of others. Far better, far, far better, to allow them to wax as they must- but to take great care that they do so to one's own design." He turned his back on the man, even as the weight of the serpent pulled Avery to his knees, and leapt lightly across the chasm, landing close to the other side of the plinth, where a few fragments of broken broomstick lay, carefully preserved. "What is the strength of Harry Potter?"

"Compassion, my Lord." Bellatrix alone dared to speak- all other eyes which should have followed their Lord lingered traitorously on Thomas Avery, wavering on his knees before the zig-zag crack of the chasm in the floor, the serpent entwined treacherously around his legs, awaiting his fate. "The very same which gave such strength to Dumbledore before him."

"A wise answer," the Dark Lord spoke still more quietly, his audience hanging on his words- for each knew that to miss a question, an order, directed at them and them alone would mean punishment or death. A bare sibilant hiss escaped his lips as he slid to her side, his hand stealing from his robes to caress the cartilaginous cheek-bones of his lieutenant's skull mask. He could scent the fear on the air, hear her pulse quicken in terror in her breast- but, with Bellatrix, yes, with Bellatrix there was more- for she knew her fear, and knew the pain that would follow, and some small part of her would exult in it even as her screams rang out. "Compassion- that which we have struck aside from our law and code for its dangers, for the rank obscenity of it. You are beholden to none but me… and yet… and yet for the boy…" he let his hand fall, turning away to once again regard the small remnants of wood. Pettigrew had brought them to him- a trophy, a sign, nothing more. "For the boy," he mused, pacing slowly around the circle of dark wizards, "That passion- that love for those dear to him and the fear lest they perish in his stead was a force mighty enough to drive back all of us." He halted, before a tall and slender robed figure. "Curious… was it not you, Severus, who assured me that compassion was the boy's greatest weakness?" Lips parted, tongue flickering in amusement, Voldemort turned to face the masked figure, red eyes boring into the sockets of the mask.

"It was, my Lord." Snape's voice was stiff and careful beneath the mask. The Dark Lord leant closer. Severus had not been pleased, indeed, almost seemed resentful that the attack at Hogwarts which had involved his young protégé, Lucius' son, had been perpetrated without his knowledge or participation. Voldemort knew well that both Lucius and Bellatrix had challenged him over his apparent audacity in daring to visibly disapprove of the Dark Lord's actions; he himself had remained silent. It was better to retain that hold over Severus Snape, to know that, one day, should it be needful, it was another sin he could lay at the door of his favourite spy and demand payment.

"Indeed, Severus." Voldemort's hand grasped the thin man's left arm, gripping it firmly through the black cloth of his robes, feeling the prickling chill of the Dark Mark as it reached out towards its master. "Oh, indeed it was… and it was that weakness, that compassion, that led the boy to the Department of Mysteries as you had predicted- where many failures took place, none of them your own." His grip shifted, travelling slowly up the Death Eater's arm to the shoulder. "Yet weakness and strength all too often are but two aspects of the same. This should have been foreseen." His hand uncurled, releasing Snape, and slowly flexed in front of the man's implacable mask.

"Perhaps…" Lord Voldemort breathed softly, stretching forth his hand until his fingers splayed across the forehead of Snape's mask, the heel of his hand pressing down upon the bridge of the man's nose, thumb and smallest finger resting upon the orbital ridges of the eye sockets. Snape's fear was like a thing alive, now, pinned beneath the weight of his self-control, but writhing, lashing, yearning to be free. The Dark Lord's fingers squeezed inward slightly, and he felt the mask buckle, pressing uncomfortably hard against the Death Eater's face beneath. "It may be that I should seek out the source of this weakness, and crush it?" His grip tightened, and he felt the servant's pain, heard the click of teeth as Snape's jaw set.

"Indeed, it should have been foreseen." His eyes burned red, and he moved forward, bringing his face close to Snape's own, crimson eyes locking gaze with beetle-black as the hidden Death Eater stared out from between Lord Voldemort's pale fingers. The Dark Lord smiled. "Well?" he asked, magnanimously awaiting Snape's response.

"My Lord- if I have displeased you- I apologise- but if you destroy me, dispense with my services, then you will lose your eyes within the Order of the Phoenix-" He stopped, as the Dark Lord began to chuckle, a dry, hissing sound. Those self-same eyes hardened with steely resignation within the crushing grip of Voldemort's hand, as Snape awaited the final act.

"A transparent and self-serving reply, my old friend- but an honestly craven counsel. Yes-" he released the Death Eater, gliding past him and returning to his own position within the circle's rim. "It should have been foreseen. It should have been foreseen by me," he turned, meeting the eyes of each of his loyal flock in turn. "Does that surprise you? Do you ask for infallible wisdom?" The wand flicked out once more, ancient wood with the texture of stone, and pointed unwaveringly at the pathetic wreckage of a Nimbus 2000 broomstick where it lay on the plinth. "I tell you that _I _underestimated Harry Potter, and that folly was almost the ruin of all for which we have worked. In striking at the boy through those he is foolish enough to still believe he loves, I unleashed a power fully as strong- and alike- to that which once destroyed me so many years ago." Again, he sought out the eyes of his Death Eaters. "Well?" The voice carried a mocking, gleeful tone. "Which of you will turn and leave? Which of you has the courage to face me with equal candour?"

Not one met his eyes. Not Bella. Not Lucius. Not Severus. Not Thomas, still cowering beneath Nagini. With a thought and one word of command, Lord Voldemort summoned the snake to his side. "Not one?" he enquired, with civil disappointment. "A pity." Again the dry chuckle spilled forth from his throat, and this time the wand of Slytherin followed the path of his eyes as he looked about the circle. "Then we shall go on together, my friends- for Lord Voldemort _is_ wise, and this is the true measure of wisdom- he _does not_ make the same mistake more than once." The wand lashed down, and a spark kindled, sudden and incandescent, within the broken broom, roaring, crackling, spitting through the bone-dry wood, smoke spiralling up to hang heavy over the cliff tops and the broken room. As the Nimbus burned, pale flames reaching up high into the dawn, the heat haze wavering amid the circle of Dark, once again Voldemort stepped across the jagged crack in the rock, and pointed a bloodless finger at Fate's Crucible, now standing alone.

* * *

A sound like the sea roaring in his ears, Harry felt himself pulling up and back, all sense of up and down, left and right, outward and inward spinning wildly around his head until the back of his skull jarred painfully against the sandstone wall of the little folly, and his feet rocked as he sat heavily down on the bench.

Harry licked his lips, swallowing his acrid nausea and looking in Ginny's direction with eyes that seemed as willing to focus as if hit by two dozen Conjunctivitis curses. Two girls, seeming to flare and bubble before his eyes, wavered in and out of one another, sparking and trailing light as they finally merged into one.

"Did we get it?" he meant to say, but what came from his throat was a wheezing, voiceless creak.

She had wedged herself in one corner, her arms wrapped with clasped hands around her drawn-up knees, and looked from Harry to the little pensieve on the bench. With a sharp inhalation of breath, she gave him a shaky nod.

"Closer," she managed, after a moment. "Let's see…" The girl coughed, rubbing her arms and standing up quickly. "I hope so. Ow. The inside of your head is too loud." Ginny sat down again beside him- on the opposite side to the small golden dish, her arm curled around his back, and he pulled her to him, sharing some warmth with her as her head tilted sideways to rest on his shoulders. "Better than last time, anyway."

Harry snorted quietly, pushing his glasses up on to his forehead to rub at his eyes with one hand, holding her shoulders gently with the other. "Couldn't have been much worse." He looked down at her in concern as she drew her wand with a shaky hand. "Are you ready?"

"Of course not." Ginny sniped back, with one weary eyebrow lifted, as Harry, with an equally weak and wavering arm, lifted his own wand hand to parallel hers. "Are you?" she asked him in return.

He considered this for a moment, and then spoke the incantation. They watched.

After a moment, Harry leant his head back against the wall again, keeping his eyes closed and his body still, and allowing his sense of balance to come to its own conclusions in its own good time. For four days it seemed to him, the two of them had spent every waking minute that was free from the petty tyrannies of timetable and bodily necessities of sleep and food in this place, battling their way through Harry's memories in search of what they sought. It had not gone unnoticed- indeed, had Hermione and Ron not been amply distracted by concerns of their own, he very much doubted that it would have gone unchallenged. People less close to them might have felt that the periodic disappearances of the young couple could be easily explained for reasons far from sinister, but best not elaborated upon- but Harry was quite well aware that the pale exhaustion that showed on his face as clearly as it showed on Ginny's was not an expression which suggested time spent in the exchange of social niceties.

Now, still, after all that- he stifled a sudden urge to beat his skull against the back of the wall in frustration. Still, it would not work.

"Closer." Ginny repeated, drawing her legs up under her and leaning back against him. "That's the closest it's been, Harry," she mused on the thought, closing her tired eyes for a moment.

"It's still not _enough_," he groaned, half to himself, snatching his spectacles from his face with one spasmodic, irritable movement of the hand, savage anger boiling up towards- he was not sure what- his own enfeebled memories, towards his lack of speed, towards the knowledge that he was going to have to ask her to do this again- and again- and again, until they finished what they had set out to do--

It would have been useless, though, to try to attempt what they had attempted at a slower or a faster pace. Once begun, there was a certain rhythm to their work, a steady progression, building on what had gone before, that had caught them up and led them on. He rubbed his hand furiously through his hair. Perhaps- what, a few weeks, to refine the spell. Then- how long, to plan and prepare everything else that needed to be done… but that wasn't the heart of it.

He growled, settling his glasses back on his nose.

"Do you think Hermione's notes might help?" he asked, suddenly. It wasn't the crux of the problem by any means- but any way forward was a comfort, a release valve for the prickling mass of frustration that seemed to surround them on every side.

"Right now I'll take any help I can get," Ginny muttered.

"Well, she has managed to cast something like it before- last year, remember?" Harry fumbled in his pocket, but Ginny nodded.

"It's all right- I know what you mean-" she frowned, adding, critically, "I can't say I like the idea of just rummaging through her notes without telling her, though, Harry." She drew away from him slightly, and Harry nodded, his own irritation fading to a grim unhappiness.

"Me neither." He bit his lip. "It's just… I don't know. Maybe Snape's just getting to me. What they don't know they can't give away."

"It's the same for me, though, isn't it?" she looked hard at him. "Isn't it?"

The truth was, Harry knew, it wasn't. Not exactly. Since he'd spoken to Snape- no, before that, but Snape's words at Christmas and after had driven the thought closer to the forefront of his mind, the worry had been growing within him. He knew- he'd told the Potions Master as much- that Voldemort couldn't easily read his thoughts- or, at least, couldn't easily make sense of them. Then, too, he knew that he could, if need be, fight the Imperius Curse. Ginny had faced the curse, just as she'd faced Voldemort with him- twice now, and he told himself that was the reason he had been prepared to trust her with something he was reluctant to share with his two old friends- but in his heart, he was well aware there was another reason, a less noble one.

If Voldemort took her, I don't know if I'd care any more- not about plans, not about the world…

He shook his head abruptly. She was still looking at him, a challenge in her gaze. He needed her, then. That was it. The spell was in his memories- but only as an effect, an echo, a remembrance. Ginny's instincts- her intuition when it came to the make-up of spells and magic, were the only way he could see to turn that memory into something he could touch, and cast, and use to work his own will- and given the nature of what they were doing, he could hardly ask her to work in the dark.

Besides, he realised, with a sudden chill, quite apart from the practical need for her to know where she was going- there was something else, something that was behind her vehement anger now.

He groaned, massaging his forehead with both hands. Had he forgotten the lessons of Grimmauld Place so easily?

"It's like you said," her hand had returned the wand to her sleeve, and she rubbed her knuckles stiffly, as if a little pained by the power that had passed through them. "This is dark. We're going to need them to help us-"

"Not without knowing what they're getting in to." Harry offered her his hand. "I know- and maybe that's it," he added, gratefully receiving her hand into his none the less, and screwing his eyes up tightly for a moment to try to clear his head. "I'm making excuses for myself," he told her, with a slight, feeble effort at a smile. "That might be at the bottom of it, though," he admitted regretfully. "I mean- I can't see another way. She's got to be stopped- I honestly can't see any other way that isn't going to be worse in the long run… but…" He looked sharply at her, her brown eyes meeting his green. The thing was, Harry's brain pointedly informed him, there was a world of difference between telling himself that, or telling Ginny, who had seen enough of the darkness in his personal world to understand, he'd hoped, and trying to justify it to someone else- especially when he still found it a struggle to justify his plan to himself.

"Second thoughts?" he asked her quickly, recognising his own concerns with a chill. His mind might revolt in anger at the thought that they were only _close_ to the answer- but he knew suddenly rather well that his _heart_'s concern was more that they were too close- too close to a decision he was far from eager to make.

Ginny mulled this over. She seemed about to deny it, and then looked away into the middle distance, her brow crinkled in thought.

"More like fifth or sixth, by now," she admitted, wryly, "- but…" she sat up straighter, lifting one hand to her forehead and massaging her temples between thumb and forefinger. "We can do this, Harry," she said again, her tone careful, reasoning out. "We can do it- and she deserves it-" her eyes, almost unbidden, flicked for one moment towards his hand, then slipped back to their distant contemplation. Her thoughts trailed off into silence.

"Voldemort deserves to receive pain, but we do not deserve to have to give it." Harry's voice was low and bitter as he recalled the words to his tongue The girl's eyes widened at the words, and met his own. Harry realised- they had never, none of them, ever spoken aloud of what had passed between their four minds that day. There had been no need- until now.

A nod from Ginny, and a long silence.

"That's what I meant," she agreed, after a time, and then fell silent once more, lost in something deeper than communication now, wordless or otherwise.

"You know-" she said, finally, haltingly. "Milner said something in Defence the other day. We were talking about the Unforgivables- I'd forgotten until you said that…" she reflected. "He said that, unless you were really far gone, it was a lot worse to have to cast an Unforgivable Curse on someone you cared about than it was to have it cast on you."

"I wouldn't say I exactly cared about Umbridge," Harry retorted, a little sharply- but his anger was with himself, not with her. Nor, then, did he plan to cast an Unforgivable Curse on her, his thoughts reminded him coldly… but perhaps it wasn't that far off. Neither he nor Ginny would have disputed that the plan he had offered- almost without thinking- to Dumbledore that day, now close on a week in the past, drew in itself perilously close to the line Harry had forbidden himself to ever step across- but how close? It had just seemed… right. At the moment the Headmaster had asked him the question, he had felt the answer assembling itself in his mind. A half-dozen conversations, half-forgotten comments, old threads of thought had slipped together, and, before he'd even consciously known what that plan was- but, he guessed, a good few seconds after Dumbledore had known his answer and received it in the depths of those eyes of his, Harry had replied.

"Yes. I've got an idea."

Yes, I can do it.

Yes, I told him I could do it. I made a promise- and I made it without thinking.

He turned his thoughts inward, trying to draw upon that reserve of calm and clinical detachment that had sustained him in the past- but now he knew the very crux of the problem was in his heart- it was not what he planned to do- but why he planned to do it- that vexed him.

I wouldn't say I exactly cared about Umbridge.

Maybe that would make it- paradoxically- easier for him. If it were someone he cared for- then at least, however painful it would be, he would know his own mind. Now, though, he was plagued with the nagging and unpleasant thought that, just perhaps, what he planned to do was as much a matter of revenge as it was of necessity.

Except that lack of concern wasn't true, was it? Not entirely. For one thing, he hated her- and for another, she was still a living human being. What was that worth? Ginny had saved Draco Malfoy's life, saying that she would gladly see Malfoy dead- but that she knew Harry would not- and then, he remembered, she had retracted the statement, doubt and confusion in her eyes, dark in the shadows of the Hospital Wing at night.

Beneath the winter sun, shining in through the windows of their secret place, he looked into those eyes again- and she looked into his, remembering.

He would fight. He might even kill.

But he would kill to save those he loved and wished to keep alive,

Not to damn those he hated and wished dead.

"Another thing someone said," he whispered, closer now, holding her tight. "I meant Voldemort then too- but she's turning into something just as bad."

"You talk about turning the other cheek- but what if someone with that sort of power- magical, political, whatever, was going to do- was already doing- terrible things, and only you had the power to stop him. Should you do it?"

"Well, of course, Harry." The vicar had looked slightly surprised, but not for the reasons Harry had expected. "The nature of power- whether it is 'normal' or fanciful, does not change the moral obligations which go with it. Power breeds responsibility. The ability to help others and the moral obligation to do so- especially where fewer or no other people can, which is where we come back to your idea about a rare 'magical' gift, go hand in hand."

The words tumbled up out of his memory, rising into his mind at their need, and her grip tightened on his hand.

"There's nothing particularly 'dark' about dark magic, is there?" He addressed the question to her honestly. "In itself, I mean. Really? Even the Unforgivables… it's what they _do_ that's evil- and what they were designed for. It's not the fact that they're magic that makes them horrible. Killing someone with the Avada's no worse than killing them with a knife- it's just that when you start, it's difficult to stop."

Ginny hesitated. She moved her lips, moistening them for a moment before answering.

"It's not the charm," she told him. "It's more… I don't know. You're right- she's got to be stopped somehow… but when we do this- when you do it," she amended, and then stopped, frowning intently. "We can't turn back, then, can we?"

How much closer would it push them to the edge? There it was. Harry knew well enough the likely consequences of what he was planning to do- but how far ahead could he see? Once he moved against Umbridge- how would she- and how would Voldemort- respond? That, he could perhaps guess- but how would he react to them? Then, what would the next move be- and the next, and the next- where would this first move take them, a year or so into the future?

Even as that dark and frightening thought crept to the front of his brain, another occurred to him. It was _not_ the first move. All of it- the Registration Act, the raid on the Ministry, his duel with Voldemort… it had all been in response to some earlier action, an endless dance stretching back- how far? In all that time, no one had halted the chain, refused to react… except one person- Cornelius Fudge. Harry swore. There was no choice to not act. Even burying his head in the sand, refusing to cross the line out of his acceptable world, like Fudge, like Vernon Dursley- that was a decision, a choice, in itself. He had demanded to join the Order of the Phoenix, insisted on his right to choose…and now he was afraid to do it, afraid to cross his into his own particular forbidden world.

He would rather that people hated him, than that they feared him, he'd said. He looked at Ginny, and, for just a moment, saw a frightened twelve-year old below the young woman he loved. A child who had felt hatred flowing, burning out through her, whose throat had given orders to seek and kill, in a language she did not know.

"Could you let it go?" he asked, looking hard at both of her. "Just say 'No, we can't go that far', and let her carry on?"

Ginny shook her head, with little pause.

"Speak," her lips moved, voiceless, her word a breath on the air, not moving her eyes from his own. She nodded. "It's true, isn't it? The very fact that it hurts- that's the one thing we need to keep feeling, whatever else happens- because the moment we start to _want_ to do this, it becomes the wrong decision- but we can't stay silent. We have to do something." Ginny finished, and breathed in, slow, long, and deep. "I suppose- if that means going close to the brink… well, we'll have to keep an eye on each other."

The Oath had been sworn to keep them back, because Harry had known that the temptation to use those curses that he must not use would only grow stronger as the days grew darker ahead- but in the end, he realised, with a sudden thrill of shock, the magical binding had only been the smallest part of that contract. A greater power, one with no particular connection with magic, had been that agreed between the four of them on that day- to stand together, and, if necessary, to be able to risk the darkness because each knew that the others would stand ready to draw them back from the edge.

"All right," Harry sighed. "If one of us turns into the next Dark Lord- or Lady, savin' yer grace's honourable presence," he added, by way of a Milnerism, "Then it's up to whichever one of us hasn't gone and stolen Tommy's job to put a stop to them as well." He rubbed the back of his neck, and Ginny took his hand, shaking it firmly.

"Done. I'll try not to hurt you too much.""

Then she laughed- a difficult, sudden spasm of a chuckle at first, and then again, a longer laugh which lifted the corners of her lips, and then a third, which reached her eyes and lit them up in his vision.

He looked at her in surprise- of all the reactions he'd expected, that had not been one of them, and the thought occurred to him- both startling and pleasurable in equal measure that perhaps he did not yet fully know the _entire_ mind of Ginny Weasley. With that thought, another came, and he stifled a laugh of his own, eyes widening in realisation.

"When did 'watch my back' get so complicated?" he burst out, shaking his head as another laugh escaped him, and embraced her, his arms meeting around her waist and holding her to him, his eyes screwed tight shut, luxuriating in the feel of her, close to him, the scent of her hair in his nostrils. The colour seemed to flow back into the world. It was a painful decision- it was a decision he knew would almost certainly bring its own regrets- but it was their decision, and it was made. He felt her arms around him, holding him to her fiercely, her hand cupped to the back of his neck, and turned his head against hers, kissing her with an intensity that seemed to somehow sidestep the contact of flesh on flesh.

Yes, probably with this sort of thing,

The comment from an older and more jaded part of his mind answered his earlier question. He felt Ginny's lips pull into a grin, and her arms unlocked, sliding back. Wise- any longer and both knew rather well that the knowledge of imminent and scheduled education, concrete and certain as it might be, would no longer be persuasive enough an argument to assure them of the necessity for a hasty departure.

"I wonder what we'll do when there aren't any classes to go to any more?" he asked rhetorically, swinging his bag on to his back. Ginny's face coloured.

"I'm sure Ron'll be happy to defend my virtue," she observed, primly straightening her robes, but avoiding Harry's eye as she did so. "Although if I know my brother, that shouldn't pose too much of a problem."

"Should I ask?" He stepped aside to allow her to precede him out of the Nest, feeling somehow invigorated by that moment of decision. The ends might not justify the means- but still, the meaning of Dark Magic was tied into the use to which that magic was set, more than to the spells themselves. The strains and the weary work still hung upon them- but the weight was somehow less. "After you."

"Well, you're the one he was warning about the birds and the bees," Ginny murmured, linking her arm in his as they climbed back towards the castle. "He may not be too keen on the practical aspect of it- but trust me, Harry,"

"Yes, Professor Milner," -he received a look which spoke quite eloquently of revenge delayed until a more appropriate moment in reply to that particular interjection,

"Trust me, there's a little proud bit of Ron's mind that can't wait for the day someone small runs up to him and calls him 'Uncle Ron'," Ginny told him rather quickly, keeping her eyes on the path ahead. Harry found himself doing likewise, even as he responded.

"If that's all he wants, we could always bribe a first year."

"A use for the Potter fortune," she grinned, tickling him suddenly. "I knew there was a reason I loved you that wasn't about the meddling in things witches weren't meant to know- or all the violence-"

However, Harry's brain had stalled several words ago, and he stopped mid-step, turning to face her.

"-- Not that those aren't fun in themselves," she added, taking advantage of his silence, although her eyes told a different, deeper story.

Harry regarded her for a long moment, whilst he noticed, quite calmly, that somehow they appeared to have become entangled in one another's arms once more. Strange. He opened his mouth.

"I have Potions, now," he told her, only moderately inconvenienced by the way his body seemed to find it necessary to kiss her between alternate words. "If I'm late, Snape'll probably fillet me."

Ginny offered a rather muffled solution. Harry was unsure, but he thought he heard the phrases 'Snape can go hang' and 'Just get some Skele-gro'.

"Besides," he added, moving one of his hands, "You're supposed to be learning Defence Against the Dark Arts," he tickled her suddenly and unexpectedly, making her jump back with a stifled and high-pitched hiss of breath.

"I seem to get plenty of practice," Ginny regarded him with an old-fashioned look. "Go on, then- if you must leave me for Snape," she pushed him away with an imperious expression when he tried to kiss her again, "I'll see you at lunchtime."

"Done and done," Harry nodded, approvingly, and set off up the slope.

* * *

It might have been worth being five minutes late for Potions, Harry speculated. Or ten. Possibly ten.

"Fifteen?" his thoughts were forced sharply into words without meandering through the inconvenient path of reason as someone's elbow caught him in the stomach.

"Fifteen?" Snape's tones oozed glee. "Fifteen minutes, Mr Potter feels would be adequate to brew the Elixir of Brevity. Incidentally, Zabini, I am quite capable of drawing Mr Potter's attention myself- kindly do not resort to such vulgar antics again or I shall be forced to remove points from you- and, as Head of your House, I am well aware that Slytherin can afford to lose no further points this academic year."

Blaise started to speak.

"Your period of convalescence is over, Miss Zabini," her teacher went on, turning and striding back up to the front of the classroom, lightly flexing his wand between one hand and the other as he did so. Harry idly formulated the theory that, possibly, Severus Snape had heard some rumour that, somewhere in the depths of Hogwarts, some student had perhaps ventured the opinion that the Potions Master might be a human being, with compassion and pity somewhere in his emotional make-up. Certainly, Snape's manner in recent days had seemed to indicate a determination to disabuse anyone of any such notion- generally with all the grace and subtlety of a small and pungent chemical explosion.

"Unless you feel it necessary to return yourself to the hospital wing, in which case I shall expect to see a signed note of excuse from Madam Pomfrey when you _are_ fit to resume your studies," the Professor continued, coldly, "You will otherwise conduct yourself in my classes in a manner appropriate to a Sixth Year Slytherin; rather than some form of surrogate Weasley to cover Potter's many deficiencies. Well-" he turned again, sharply tapping his wand on the desk of Millicent Bulstrode, currently busily employed in trying to accidentally push Richard George's exercise books into his bubbling cauldron. Millicent, abashed, hurriedly pulled her hand back to her own side of the desk. "Since it appears from the oscillating jawbone and sullen cast of the features that Potter has finally deigned to return his mind to the class at hand, I shall give him one more opportunity to answer the question."

Harry's mouth closed. He flicked a pleading look at Blaise, but, already having felt Snape's ire, she was plainly in no mood to risk further antagonising him by taking Harry's part.

_Something to do with an Elixir of Brevity… how long it takes to brew it?_ He glanced at his textbook- but saw nothing of any especial relevance. Snape's mouth creased into a thin smile.

"No?"

Harry looked up at the ceiling, trying to remember things he must have heard, somewhere at the back of his mind.

"The answer is not engraved on the stonework, Mr Potter." The Potions Master leant forward slightly, regarding Harry through lidded eyes. The faint discolouration of bruising made his eyes seem more hollow than ever. Harry wondered where he'd come by that. "Forty-three and a half minutes, exactly. Any less, and the potion will be entirely ineffective. Any more, and the cauldron will begin to oxidise, rendering the mixture toxic. I had thought," Snape went on, with no great regret or disappointment in his voice, "That since it is your intention to miss the next lesson, in which Professor Grubbly-Plank will take the rest of the class through my lesson plan on the subject of the Ten Golden Tinctures, you might choose to favour us with a little more of your intellect and capability on this occasion- or, at the least, with a certain amount of your attention… or is it your intention in Wednesday's class to be absent in body but present in spirit, in order to redress the balance? To see this classroom haunted by your ghost, Mr Potter, would quite possibly manage to be simultaneously the most cheering and dispiriting revelation I have yet witnessed." He swung about, striding back to the head of the classroom.

Harry wondered if Snape was looking forward to seeing his former favourite wrung through the judicial hearing. He rather suspected, from the man's demeanour- no more pleasant than usual, but with a certain vicious mercurialism in his temperament that suggested to Harry that he was watching the Professor running at slightly too fast a speed, like one of Dudley's mangled video cassettes- that Snape was not- no more than Harry was himself.

He felt a sort of sad amusement at that, and picked at a hole in his exercise book with the nib of his quill, lost in thought. The idea of sympathising with Snape was not a pleasant one- especially as it came so swiftly on the heels of his conversation with Ginny about trust. He looked up again at the pale-faced man, wondering for a moment if that same train of thought had ever run through the head of Severus Snape.

"Fifteen points from Gryffindor," the man growled, his hand slapping down on the edge of Harry's desk with a fervour that, for a moment, made the youth fear that Snape had not only thought those thoughts- but plucked them out of Harry's mind into the bargain. "Mr Potter, this is the second time I have had cause to rebuke you for your lack of attention in this class today. You will kindly moderate your attitude, or else not return. We are all well aware of your indubitable and ever eagerly demonstrated talents in certain more basic subjects," he turned dismissively away, "But if you lack the skill and finesse to deal with chemical matters then it would be best if you depart now, before rather than after your carelessness causes anyone significant illness or injury." He gripped the sides of his desk, head lowered, and his beetle-like gaze bored into the boy. "I trust I make myself clear?"

"Oh yes," Harry replied, in a low voice, the edges of sympathy flickering and fading in a moment. "Sir," he added, after a suitably insulting pause. "Of course, Professor Snape."

Standing upright, Snape snapped his book closed with a sharp crack, and returned it to the shelf.

"George," his flat tones whipped out, as Richard George failed to tip a live slug down the back of Millicent's blouse, "Don't do that."

* * *

The giant squid appeared to be feeling much refreshed by its holiday, Ginny was pleased to note, and was evidently beginning to reach that restless stage at the end of any lengthy illness when most of the symptoms and weakness have departed, and the erstwhile sufferer finds themselves increasingly irked by tedium and the confines of the sick room, and ever more eager to get out and return to the comparatively zestful and entertaining routine of everyday life; such normally mundane and yet, when denied, longed-for activities as a little light exercise, preparing and gathering one's own food, chasing down one's prey and rending them limb from limb and fin from fin before gorging oneself upon the still wriggling remnants.

Hagrid had added several additional courses of stonework to the wall of the Convalescence Pond over Christmas, raising its flat, uneven parapet about a foot proud of the water's surface most of the way around, in order to encourage his recuperating charge to enjoy a few weeks more well-earned rest, and the squid coursed back and forth across its small domain, tentacles occasionally threshing fretfully at the surface. Ron, observing one such ill-tempered sortie a few yards from their perch, seated out near to the centre of the wall's arc, carefully swung his legs up on to the top of the wall and turned, dangling his feet over the other side.

"Merpeople that side," Hermione remarked, without looking up. Ginny saw her brother's eyes widen slightly, and he hastily lifted his legs again, sitting with them in front of him parallel to the wall, resting his hands on his knees.

"You'll lose your balance when you try to get up," Ginny told him, putting a hand out to steady Ron as a gust of wind made him wobble slightly.

"I'm not a complete moron, thanks," Ron muttered, but lay back flat on the parapet none the less, safely balanced and looking up at the sky. He shaded his eyes with one hand. The dark clouds had passed over for now, and, though low in the sky, the winter sun was piercingly bright. He closed his eyes.

"Don't fall asleep," Hermione nudged him, warningly. "I know what you're like for tossing and turning-"

Ron gave a long, frustrated growl, and scrambled ill-humouredly to his feet.

Ginny quirked an eyebrow, giving the older girl an interested and quizzical look. Hermione made a rather startled indrawn noise, and found something fascinating to study on the palm of one hand.

"I have seen your brother asleep in the hospital wing," she informed Ginny, a little coolly, "On any number of occasions."

"What does he want to meet us all out here for anyway?" the subject of their conversation interrupted, finding some apparently exceedingly interesting insect to look at as it scurried across the stones. "It's perishing." He cast a long shadow. It was a cold, clear day, the very opposite of the storm-tossed tumult of the previous week, and the sun seemed to burn low in the sky with a ferocity that belied the bitter chill in the air. The shadow fell across Hermione's transfiguration textbook, and she drummed her ballpoint- school rules still required all essays to be submitted in quill-pen, but she preferred to save time by making notes in biro, and copying them to quill later- on the stones, until Ron moved again.

"For goodness sake, don't jump about like that, Ron- you'll fall in!" Harry called warningly, picking his way down through the driftwood and dead leaves that floated, mat-like, around the lake's perimeter in this season and scrambling on to the southern end of the wall, picking his way out over the white stones to join them.

Ron bit off an angry comment, and closed his eyes, lips moving faintly. Ginny rather thought he was counting up to ten. Or possibly to ten thousand.

"How was Potions?" she asked Harry, as he lowered himself into a sitting position alongside.

"I might have created an invincible army of slug-monsters," he mused. "It was hard to tell through all the smoke."

"Ah."

"Before you two start making me ill," Ron folded his arms, "What's the big idea?" He gestured out across the lake.

"I needed somewhere we could talk privately," Harry told him, unfurling the Marauders' Map and spreading it across the stonework. "Too many people are getting to know about the Room of Requirements now- and this is something we really aren't going to want spread around, trust me."

"Have you been getting my baby sister in trouble again, Potter?"

"Well, we try, but you and Little Tommy keep interrupting us," Ginny replied quickly.

Hermione had been watching them quietly. Now she folded her book gently, and set it to one side, using a light sticking charm to adhere the back cover to the parapet, in order to avoid accidents.

"Go on, Harry," she said, seriously. Harry looked up. Potions had not been a success, one way or another, and he'd barely had time to dash to the kitchens to beg a slice of bread and butter from Dobby before coming out here. It would have been nice- just to sit and relax out here for a while, with his friends. Perhaps another day. Perhaps a warmer day, a less maudlin corner of his mind interjected sourly. He took a deep breath, uncomfortably aware that he was likely to be about to deliver the first strike in a long and bitter war of words.

"Ginny and I've been… working on something," he admitted. Hermione's brow furrowed- but she said nothing, only glanced at Ron, who met her look with a nod.

"We thought it was something like that," Ron sighed. "I mean- not that I like to actually speculate on what the two of you are up to when you're sneaking off- or where you go-" he added, with a slight narrowing of his eyes, "But this last week- well, you've hardly been speaking to each other in the common room, you know-" it was true enough, Harry realised. Most evenings, by the time the light failed and they returned to Gryffindor Tower, the young couple were so weary of their work, and had said so much that needed to be said, that they'd simply sat in silence, watching the fire and listening to Dean and Seamus arguing about Seamus' performance as Chaser last term, or Hermione reading from the Daily Prophet. "To be honest, I wondered if you'd had a fight or something--"

"Several," Harry interjected. "She started it," he nodded at his girlfriend, who started to jab him in the stomach, and stopped, bearing in mind his closeness to the water's edge, catching her elbow and holding it back with her other hand.

"Deferred," she told him, with a grin, "Because I don't fancy fishing you out of the lake in this weather."

"Anyway- what is it?" Ron squatted down in front of them.

Harry swallowed hard. This was the point.

"We're going to put a stop to Umbridge." Ron's face brightened at once, but Hermione leant forward.

"Define 'put a stop to'," she said, a slightly dangerous tone in her voice.

Harry held up a hand.

"In a minute, Hermione- please- let me talk you through this my way?" He looked at her. She returned the look, her face worried, seeming to be searching for something in his eyes- but nodded.

"All right- although I hope you're going to talk to Professor Dumbledore first. He wasn't joking, you know, Harry- he does have a lot better chance of dealing with her than you do."

"Him and whose army?" Harry asked. Hermione bridled.

"Harry, if you're going to--"

"I'm serious," Harry told her. "We're Dumbledore's army, in case you've forgotten."

"Of course I haven't forgotten--"

"We're also members of the Order of the Phoenix." He breathed for a moment. The anger on her face had faded a little at that- but he chided himself for being so short with her. It hadn't been necessary- and it hadn't been fair, either.

"Dumbledore came to see me," he admitted, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, 'Mione- mainly I'm sorry about actually having to do it, because although I don't expect you to believe me after everything I've been saying since the attack on the Ministry I really don't like the idea- but I didn't mean to snap at you. It's not been a good week."

"Wasn't the best of months."

"I've had better years." Ron added.

"Anyway- the point is- this _is_ Dumbledore dealing with it."

"Then why…?" Hermione frowned at him- more puzzled than angry now. He could understand her confusion. It was out of character for the Headmaster to involve Harry so directly in such a matter.

"It's the only way," Harry said, before adding, in deference to a thoughtful look from Ginny, "At least, it's the only way I can see, and he can't think of anything else either. Not now things are moving as fast as this."

"But what are you going to do?" Ron exclaimed, sitting down heavily. "Walk in and blow Umbridge's bloody office doors off and hex her to kingdom come?"

"That was plan B," Ginny admitted. "Plan A is to set her up."

Hermione's tongue clicked at the back of her throat, and she shifted in her seat, tucked between two slightly taller stones on the uneven wall.

"That could actually work," she mused, "Although it'd be an awful risk, Ginny."

"You don't know the half of it," Harry went on. "Listen- Hermione- Dumbledore sort of tried to talk me through this the other day… but I want to hear it from you. You're quite bright- a few people have noticed." He exchanged another look with Ginny, and took her hand. "Is Umbridge a Death Eater? Yes or no."

Hermione started, her lips pursed in thought. She looked absently across the shoreline for a minute, then back at Ron, then across at Ginny, before finally turning her face back to Harry, and took a deep breath.

Out there, a little further around the lake, Hagrid was trying to clear some of the driftwood and scum from the little jetty where the first year's boats were moored, struggling with a long wooden pole which seemed to have become firmly anchored in a mass of peculiar, viscous foam like frogspawn several months too early and several sizes too large. As Harry watched, he tugged hard at it, then, in a sudden burst of anger, broke the pole across his knee, flinging the handle out in a wide arc into the water, following it with his eyes as it flew. His eyes met Harry's own, and the massive figure blanched, unmoving, as he saw the witness to his burst of bad temper. Then, without a word or greeting, Hagrid turned abruptly on his heel, stomping back away along the shore, Fang prancing excitedly and ignored at his heels. His great head bowed, and Harry saw a large hand reach up, and wipe a grimy sleeve across his eyes.

Hermione was speaking.

"No," she said, certainty forming in her voice as she spoke. "Of course she isn't- she couldn't be."

"How do you mean?" Ron frowned.

"Think about it," his girlfriend half-whispered in her urgency, grabbing his hand. "Remember the prophecy? Umbridge knew about it, didn't she?" Her eyes were wide, and an almost fanatical gleam shone in them- the same look, the same certainty of logic and reasoning, rather than of blind faith, that Harry had seen in her face in Gryffindor Tower, when she had revealed the true nature of another enemy to him.

Hermione shook her head again, bushy curls bobbing around her shoulders.

"I don't pretend to be convinced that Percy was right about everything- but there's no other way Blaise could have known about that prophecy- she knew the exact words. That means that Umbridge knew about it- and she'd known about it since the day Dumbledore had it recorded in the Department of Mysteries." She fidgeted in her makeshift perch, shifting her weight. "Harry- you of all people know how much Voldemort went through to try and get hold of that prophecy last year." He nodded, Hermione's words clearing the fog. It was obvious, now, what Dumbledore had meant. "If she were a Death Eater," the girl went on, securing the coup de grace, "She'd be a complete traitor to Voldemort- and no offence to you two," she favoured Ron and Ginny with a sudden grin, "But I don't think anyone who can be outwitted by Fred and George on a couple of old brooms is a good enough Legilimens to pull off being a double agent against him- not to mention that she was going to have to use Veritaserum to try to get a confession out of us last year." Hermione sighed, sitting back- so that Ginny, fearful that her friend might have forgotten her precarious position, hurriedly put out a hand to support the other girl's back and stop her sliding back into the water. "She still might be involved, though," Hermione added, perhaps a little reluctantly, her eyes on Harry's face again, the same wary look in them as before. "I know- just because she's not a Death Eater doesn't mean that she wouldn't help them if it suited her- but she can't be one of them. It just wouldn't make sense."

He nodded.

"I agree." With a sudden lightening of the heart which went paradoxically against most of the other emotions in his chest, Harry felt an urge to shake his head vigorously, to try and shake out one of the annoying pieces of the endlessly fractured jigsaw that had been plaguing him. No, Delores Umbridge was not a Death Eater. Like Malfoy's guilt, that was settled- and, unlike Malfoy's guilt, he firmly hoped no one was going to come along and muddy the issue once again- with the possible exception of himself.

"Right- Ron first." Harry looked at him, his tone brisk, shouldering aside the doubts and concerns for a moment. First, the practicalities. "Do you think you can smuggle something into the Ministry for me?"

"Me?" Ron gaped at him.

"You won last week, remember? Low-down cunning and deceit. This is the prize."

"I thought I'd already won that," Ron muttered, unable to avoid a slight flicker of his eyes towards Hermione. He half-stood up again, shifting from foot to foot evasively. "I- I dunno, Harry- maybe," he nodded. "Dad says stuff's been sneaked in and out before. What kind of thing is it?"

"Not very big. About a foot long. The trouble is, if I tried to take it in through the front entrance it'd set off every Dark Detector in the building. I wondered about getting Dobby to--"

"House Elves aren't allowed in the building during working hours," Ron interrupted. "They have to clean up after everyone's gone home- security." Hermione gave a distant, derisive grumble. "Still, there might be a way…" he sank into thought. "Let me think about it."

Harry nodded, and turned to his girlfriend.

"Ginny--?"

She drew herself up, tucking her knees in between her arms, and steepled her hands in front of her nose. "Last year," she began, keeping her voice calm, "Do you remember those Galleons you charmed for the DA meetings?"

Hermione agreed, looking perplexed at the sudden change of enquiry.

"The Protean Charm," she confirmed. "It's not that difficult- to be honest, Professor Flitwick said the only reason they normally restrict it to the NEWT syllabus is because some of the teachers are worried that people would use it to play tricks on younger students- making textbooks that changed between lessons, that sort of thing…" she began to tail off, regarding Ginny a little suspiciously.

"Could you teach me how to do it?" Ginny asked. "The theory as well, I mean." She held up one golden galleon in the palm of her hand, and licked her lip thoughtfully. "It feels…" she glanced at Harry, "Well, similar. Not quite the same- but if I could get a feel for that, then I might get close. Close enough, anyway."

"Close enough to what?" Hermione turned, her eyes moving between them once more.

Harry looked away.

"We've taken a spell- a charm, I suppose," he touched his forehead lightly, and heard her faint gasp of understanding as she realised just where Harry meant that that spell had come from.

"Luna said it would be a lot easier if Umbridge were a Death Eater," he commented sadly. "We could just gather them all up together and deal with them all at once." He set his jaw. "Only, the thing is- in a way she is a Death Eater. She might not be working for Voldemort- but it's the same thing. You said it yourself, Hermione," he appealed to her, seeing her face slowly beginning to set, a hard, half-scared, half-grim expression forming on it. "What she wants and what the Death Eaters are trying to do are pretty much the same thing. They just use different names, there are just different people at the top of their lists." His throat seemed dry, but he knew better than to willingly drink the lake water. He needed to make them understand.

"I'm… I'm going to give Umbridge exactly what she deserves," he told Hermione.

"Harry- Ginny, I mean it." She stood up suddenly, a note of decision in her voice. "I want her stopped every bit as much as you do- you've read the Prophey- you've seen Hagrid's face every morning at breakfast- I'd… I'd like to…" she stopped, abruptly, and then stepped forward, "But you're beginning to frighten me, and trust me, after six years being friends with you two, I don't frighten quite as easily as I used to just because I bumped into a troll in the toilets. You're going to tell me here and now just what you're planning, or else you can count me out." She took a deep breath. "I won't help you commit murder, Harry," Hermione's eyes bored into him, as hard as knives. "If we start to behave like that, then we're no better than she is- no better than Voldemort."

"I'm not going to kill her!" Harry was on his feet in a moment, his face white with anger. "What kind of monster do you think--" he closed his eyes, and sat down again in a hurry. "Never mind." He shook his head. "You're right- I know how I sound… but I'm not too keen on the idea of killing anyone either, 'Mione, funnily enough."

"Then what--?"

"What I said. I'm going to give her just what she deserves." He licked his lips. "Remember the revelation charm- I used it on Milner at the start of the year? 'Revelos Morsmor," he cast, flicking out his wand. White light flashed from his wand-tip, enveloping Ginny in that same nimbus of colourless luminescence that had indicated Milner's innocence of any formal connection with Voldemort. "I know- it's not infallible," he admitted, holding up a hand to ward off Hermione's protests. "I know a strong enough Death Eater might be able to make it show negative anyway- but, if it does show up positive- then it'd be the end of her- and she won't know how to hide it."

He looked out across the lake again, not wanting to meet her eyes. He'd goaded her on purpose, he realised- on one level he'd known it all along- on another he'd not realised it fully until she'd made her accusation, and he'd jumped to his feet to refute in anger. He'd led her to expect the very worst- so that the truth would not seem as bad by comparison. The anger turned on himself then, and he spoke grimly, as he told the truth without art or embellishment. He owed that to them. He would need to ask so much from them in the months ahead.

"It's a hold on her- that's all, but it's enough. It'd only take one wizard, one member of the Order to cast that on her in a public place and she'd be finished- and she'd know it. The Acting Minister of Magic a Death Eater? They'd have her in Azkaban by the end of the day."

"Even if she was cleared, it'd be the end of her career," Ginny elaborated. "The accusation would be enough. She wouldn't dare take the risk."

"But she's _not_ a Death Eater!" Hermione shook her head emphatically. "Harry, what have we just been talking about, for Merlin's sake? She can't be a Death Eater…"

"I didn't say she was." Harry turned his face back to her, and his eyes were cold and flat. "That charm doesn't detect Death Eaters- it detects the Mark- and that's what I'm going to do." He drew the wand with which he and Ginny had been working in Helena's Nest. It was thirteen-and-a-half inches long, and made from dark yew. "I'm going to give Delores Umbridge the Dark Mark."

* * *

**Author's Note: **The next few chapters may take a bit of time to do, because there's going to be a fair bit of legal business going on in them, and the logistics may get complicated. I'm going to try to get the whole of the Draco-enquiry sequence written up before I post any of it- just in case I get to near the end and realise I'm going to have to change something at the beginning to make it fit. So, there will be a scheduled delay (we're talking weeks, not years, as I've already written the ending), and then either two or three chapters, depending on how it pans out, at once.

* * *

**Review Responses:**

**Jedimacewindu: **The chapters have got longer as time's gone on, I think. I sometimes update multiple chapters at once (see above), although not that often- I'm too fond of cliffhangers. There will be one rather short chapter though- a sort of Alice Through the Looking Glass type chapter- but it'll almost certainly get updated with another one. I assume saying that 'everything up to chapter 50 is really good' in a review of chapter 51 means you didn't like "Jinx": )

**Wolf's Scream:** In answer to an earlier comment of yours that I neglected to mention at the time, yes, I am enjoying this. Unfortunately I've gone from one extreme to the other now- from having no idea where I was going a while ago, I've now got too much idea- so while I'm supposed to be writing about Harry and the Mark, my brain keeps jumping ahead to next term and suggesting evil things to make happen to the Dursleys.

Sadly, it's unlikely that the pupils of Hogwarts will be able to chant in delight when Umbridge is squashed- well, not en masse, anyway. As for Mr Potter- yes, education and life are beginning to pay off now. He's still capable of one or two rather large errors of judgement- the first being that he really hasn't got the hang of delegating responsibility, and the second that he occasionally lets his tongue and temper get the better of him. However, the Diagon Alley battle appeared to teach him that, yes, actually, command does occasionally mean that you do have to let _other people_ do dangerous things as well.


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